


Castle of Glass

by Andae



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Family, Jötunn Loki, M/M, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 83,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andae/pseuds/Andae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki Laufeyson, third son of the King of Jotunheim, had many brilliant ideas in his life, but sneaking into Asgard wasn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from a Linkin Park song, because I am still a teenager at heart.

In retrospect, it wasn't the brightest idea he'd ever had.

The problem was, he was getting restless, and increasingly elaborate distractions he tried inventing for himself did nothing to alleviate boredom. At this time of year Jotunheim was still and silent, deep in the clutches of cruel winter, sharp and bright like a knife's edge. Loki hunted with his brothers, chased and killed nameless beasts lurking in stone forests. When he grew tired of blood and howling, he started playing pranks, innocent ones for the most part, anything to make a little bit of noise to break cold silence. His father seemed rather unimpressed. Laufey's displeasure gnawed at him, slowly, insidiously. 

He knew he was prone to recklessness when faced with his family's disappointment. He tried, tried so very hard to fulfill their expectations, to make up for his slight stature and strange features, to learn magic, to be useful. A good scion of the house of Laufey. Sometimes he thought he managed that. More often he knew it was all in vain. Laufey may have given him jewels and trinkets for his hair, cover his narrow shoulders with furs, praise the light of his magic, but under all this affection lurked something which found him wanting. 

These were the times where Loki thought that if only he dug hard enough, tear his skin apart and sink his fingers into bone and muscle, open his ribcage wide, he would find an emptiness, a void where his heart should have been. He should have been carrying a frozen piece of winter inside him, he should have found a way to be a good son, a good brother. Instead he had only pieces of magic, parlor tricks to confuse and deceive. He could lie, he could hurt, find words that cut and sliced to the bone, create worlds of illusion at his fingertips, cut into flesh with magic sharp as knives. None of these were real enough for him, not real enough for them.

He tried nonetheless, tried to hide this gaping hole beneath his ribs. Maybe one day, under the green moon or in fleeting, pale sunlight, he would discover a way, a spell or a ritual, find the right offering for old forgotten gods. Maybe it never was about a heart at all, maybe the core of the problem run even deeper than his flesh. He did not know. It wasn't in his nature to sit idly and wait for answers, and he set forth on his own, with or without knowledge of his blood kin, only hoping they would never find out. Or maybe he hoped they would. 

Regardless of his reasons, no matter should be grave enough to forgo basic common sense and he seemed to have done exactly that. He had found out about a place, a secret place tucked into a remote corner of Asgard, where some forgotten warlord had hidden a treasure, heaps of gems and gold, weapons wrought with finest iron and magic. The riches were less important, though, than a chance of getting a foothold into Asgard. His informant was rather vague on the details, which really should have rung some warning bells, but Loki wanted very much to be the one to provide a tactical advantage. The war with the Aesir was a constant in his life, though after the last disastrous offensive so many years before which had cost them the Casket, it burned low and quiet. Without this major part of their power which the Casket represented even mighty Laufey seemed somehow diminished, if Loki would permit such a thought about his proud father. He knew he had no way to recover it, not yet, but a possibility of striking a blow against Odin, any blow, was simply too sweet to ignore.

Now the sentiment seemed primarily embarrassing, Loki admitted to himself, huddling in the corner of his cell. There was a war inside his skull. At least it felt like that, raging across planes of his mind, trampling the beginnings of thoughts and loose strands of seidr into mud. He knew, intellectually, that it was merely a remnant of the blow which rendered him unconscious and unpleasant side-effect of his chains, which also held his magic. Also, it was hot. Loki was no stranger to warmer worlds, walked them often in his endless travels, but never before was he forced to endure it for so long and in such closed quarters. Every breath was an effort. 

They took his weapons, took amber shards he kept woven into his hair, took his rings and bracelets and finely crafted golden chains which adorned his horns. He would be furious, if only splitting headache would permit such sentiments. If they wanted him dead, they would have killed him on the spot. Considering that he still drew breath, they must have wanted him for something. He would have thought information, or maybe for ransom. Or they wanted him tortured.

He was too tired and in too much pain to be able to worry about it too much. Sleep came unbidden, but a relief nonetheless.

*  

Thor shoved another stuttering sentry aside and continued walking down the hall as if nothing happened. If only he knew that this day would turn out like that, he would never bother to get out of bed in the morning. His father had left Asgard a few days before on some mission or errand he had never bothered to explain to his son, leaving the kingdom in Thor's capable hands. And under his mother's supervision, obviously. Even Thor had no delusions about that. Frigga usually kept to herself when he wasn't doing anything spectacularly ill-advised, but he felt her gaze on himself every time he turned a corner. He would bump accidentally into one of the Valkyries, or find himself staring at serene face of one of his mother's ladies who just happened to be where he was. When he lay sleepless at night, he would hear mocking cawing of ravens outside his window.

After a few days he was fairly sure he was going to go mad. 

And now this matter with the prisoner. A strange Jotunn, slender and with a mane of black hair, but a Jotunn all the same, red-eyed and blue-skinned, with telltale lines marring his face and body. According to one of his father's spies, who had lured an unsuspecting Laufeyson into Asgard, he would be a valuable hostage, though how Laufey could love such a creature enough to stop his war was truly beyond Thor. He knew what was expected of him – to keep the prisoner safe and wait for Odin's return – but none of these made the whole thing less baffling. He itched to speak with the Jotunn, to learn more. For all his foreignness the prisoner seemed as fragile as anyone in his position, nothing like the Jotnar in the histories. He had apparently put up a good fight, deceiving the einherjar with clever illusions and cutting flesh with magic. In the end it didn't matter, though Thor heard many angry voices this evening, calling for appropriate punishment for the seidrmadr. 

The cell they had put him in was decent enough, but the prisoner had apparently found the floor to be more fitting place for sleep than the bed. Curled on the cold hard stones, he seemed somehow small and alien at the same time. Without small jewels and golden thread which kept his hair in order, it was now strewn around his face, which was guarded and closed even in his sleep. Thor unwillingly found himself following curving lines crossing the prisoner's cheeks and chin with his eyes. They seemed a little like scars, though he could not fathom why anyone would willingly harm himself so. Maybe they were born with them, like with the scale-like protrusions which marked the Jotunn's narrow shoulders.

The warriors said he had taken a solid blow to the head before they could subdue him. In fact Thor could still see darker stains on blue skin of the prisoner's neck and back. Under different circumstances he would be more than happy to let the ice giant rot in the cell for all he cared, but this time he felt uneasy. He was not a prisoner of war, not truly, and he wasn't bested in fair combat, only captured through treachery and lies. Thor waited for anger – shouldn't the Jotnar answer for breaking a treaty, for sending one of their own to steal what didn't belong to them – but there was very little of it. He observed the prisoner instead, his weak thrashing on the floor, the thin sheen of sweat covering his body. Maybe he should send a healer down there.

He hoped Odin would know what to do with the sorcerer. For once Thor would gladly defer to his father's judgment. 

There was a presence behind him. He turned around in time to see Sif, her face oddly contemplative. She ran her fingers along the steel bars of the cell, engraved with runes for protection and imprisonment. 

“He is a strange one, is he not?”

“Aye.” Thor managed to turn his gaze away from the Jotunn. “He looks nothing like Laufey. Nothing like other Jotnar. I wonder if we were deceived.”

She shrugged and said nothing. She was among the einherjar to capture the sorcerer and still bore traces of frostbite and several shallow cuts on her arms and cheek. 

“Did you want something?”

“Don't do anything stupid, won't you?” She smiled slightly and patted his shoulder. “I think Lady Frigga wishes to see you if you have a moment. It will not do to have her waiting, so don't dawdle.”

He snorted.

“Since when you are acting as her messenger?”

“My advice included stupid questions as well, just so you know. See you later. You still owe me a spar. Maybe this time you will best me.”

She didn't stay long enough to hear his indignant response. That was exactly like her, to remind him of still-painful bruises she had given him when they sparred before she left with the warriors to capture the Jotunn. He stole last glance at the ice giant and started violently, when his eyes met almost painfully intense red gaze.

“Please do go on,” the Jotunn said dryly. “I've had precious little entertainment here. Where is famous Asgardian hospitality?”

It seemed a small eternity before Thor found his tongue.

“We are not here to entertain you,” he said.

“So it would seem.” The Jotunn drew himself from the floor with a grunt of pain. He sat for a while in silence, his back to the wall, never once averting his eyes from Thor's face. Thor felt himself reddening under the scrutiny.

“You were found trespassing on our territory, you violated the border. You are lucky to be treated as gently as you were.” Thor's earlier kindness dissipated. His ears seemed to be on fire. To make matters worse, the small Jotunn apparently noticed everything, judging from his smirk.

“Oh, I have no doubt about that, Odinson. You are him, am I right? I wonder how Odin could have spawned such a foolish child.”

The sound which came from Thor's throat resembled an animal's growl more than anything human. It amused the Jotunn to no end.

“Keep your clever words, Laufeyson,” Thor managed to say through gritted teeth. “They will not help you in the end.”

He turned and tried to make his exit as dignified as possible. The sound of icy chuckle followed him through the halls.

*

Loki made sure that the big golden oaf was well beyond the hearing range before he allowed his shoulders to sag. His whole body felt stiff, his head still pounded abominably, there were patches of black and silver floating lazily in his sight, and every word he managed to get out at Odinson hurt. This little encounter gave him some hope, however. Apparently Odin was not at Asgard, otherwise he would be long questioning Loki by now. And his son was so obviously a failure who could not piece a decent thought together. There may be a chance of escaping yet.

He did not miss the shieldmaiden's gaze, though. She was the one to knock him out in the end. It would be prudent to keep an eye on her, he decided, as much as he could keep an eye on anything in his sorry state. How his brothers would laugh to see him like this. How Farbauti would laugh. There mere thought of his other parent sent shivers through him. Laufey was often stern and cold, but never cruel, never unkind. Farbauti had little love for Loki, for his strange features and his magic. He was no longer welcome into Laufey's halls, his visits few and far between. Laufey never said what caused this rift between them, though Loki suspected he knew the reason.

He could hardly keep a passage of time, but it seemed that a few hours passed before they finally brought him some food and water. He was of half a mind to ignore the stale bread disdainfully, but his grumbling stomach disagreed violently with his pride. Well, his dignity could wait. He had precious little of it left and didn't care for starving for its sake. The guard eyed him warily and disappeared as soon as he came. Apparently there wasn't an abundance of volunteers to watch over the Jotunn. Loki felt the beginning of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could use it somehow, this distaste for something foreign and dangerous.

These few drops of cold water did him some good, though the heat in the cell was still stifling. He could smell his own sweat, acrid, bitter stench of closed spaces and wounded people. His head still felt tender and his vision swam if he moved carelessly, but he was reasonably certain that this discomfort was passing. He had worse things to worry about, anyway. 

* 

Thor found his mother in her favorite place, deep in the gardens of Fensalir. She and her entourage spent their days sitting on stone benches around the fountain, walking around, sewing, weaving, doing embroidery. He always felt a little bit uncomfortable among them. The ladies in waiting rarely spoke in his presence, but he felt their gaze, could almost hear their words. He had a feeling that they were judging him somehow unworthy. The barely-contained amusement in the eyes of the Valkyries who sometimes accompanied Frigga only seemed to confirm it.

Afternoon sun was heavy and golden on his head. Slight wind rustled leaves and flowers of slender blooming trees Frigga favored. His steps sounded loud and heavy on the stony path. Suddenly he felt the weight of gazes of a dozen women. He summoned a smile which felt strained and sheepish even for him. He wished he could still go back to bed and wake up in a world without the Jotnar and amused ladies in waiting.

“Welcome, dear,” Frigga murmured, letting him kiss her cheek and sit next to her on the bench. A needle was flashing in her quick fingers, but he could not make out the embroidery yet. He felt too large, too heavy and very out of place.

“You wished to see me, Mother?”

Frigga gave him a small, kind smile which chilled him to the bone.

“I heard we have quite an... unusual guest here.”

“There's one way of putting it,” Thor murmured resentfully before he could stop himself.

“I hope he has been treated with respect. Has he?” Frigga's smile resembled a knife's edge. 

Thor desperately looked away, but none of the ladies gave him any signs of support. Freyja, who was seated nearby, was trying to stifle a giggle and failing.

“He is locked in a cell, Mother.”

“It will not do to have a Laufeyson die under our roof,” Frigga's voice was still mild, serene, but with a hint of reproach. Thor attempted to shrink and disappear.

“I will take care of this, Mother,” he said and was very proud of himself when his voice didn't waver. It gave him a spark of courage. “But why, Mother? He is a criminal, a thief. A Jotunn and a seidrmadr. Why do you care?”

She touched his cheek gently.

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered and suddenly she seemed sad. Her gaze strayed towards Freyja for a second. “One day you will understand that some wars are not worth waging, and some are not won with blades.”

He looked at her, puzzled, but she refused to elaborate.

* 

When Laufey was irritated, his stronghold would shake in its roots and men trembled. Ice broke slowly, groaning in its otherworldly voice. Laufey's sons scrambled and fled, save for the youngest one, the smallest one, who never feared the roar and biting sarcasm and always managed to calm their father somewhat. Sometimes people whispered that the little runt, this abomination, charmed their King somehow, worked his magics and clouded his mind. Laufey tended to break those who dared to speak such thoughts aloud. 

But when Laufey was angry, truly furious, deep in his black icy rage, the keep was quiet like death and Winter.

He was sitting on his throne, a huge slab of ice carved in a thousand changing shapes, when the news came, an ultimatum disguised as an invitation. He rose silently, walked through the crowd of Jotnar, none of whom dared to look him in the eyes, and left. His two elder sons glanced at each other, seemed to come at some sort of understanding and slithered along, following their father. It was much better to face his wrath now than to hide and prove themselves cowards. 

“Why didn't you stop him?” Laufey asked, stopping near the end of narrow dark corridor. He leaned on the windowsill and looked outside, into the night, into the raging blizzard. His whole body screamed of tightly wound tension.

“We had no idea,” Helblindi said. His voice came out clipped.

“None of you?” Laufey fixed his gaze at something behind his sons. Helblindi didn't need to turn his head to see a slender shadow of a girl curling her fingers into thick fur of a wolf. They just stood there, silent. Helblindi always found his – niece, he could say – a little more than unnerving. The wolf and the serpent he understood, they were wild, they were strong and always hungry, comfortable in their predictability. 

“No, Father,” he whispered. “Loki kept to himself lately. We thought--”

His voice trailed away when he noticed Laufey's fingers digging into the wall, through ice and stone as easily as if they were soft butter. He heard a quiet slither of scales on the floor tiles somewhere behind them. 

“We never thought he would come to Asgard,” he finished lamely. 

“You never thought?” Laufey voice was still gentle. “You never thought to question your brother? Your father?”

Hel never looked away, her single eye still and unblinking. Helblindi never dared to ask Loki how exactly he had come up with the children, his creations – the girl, the wolf, the serpent. He fashioned them somehow out of ice and magic and his own blood, with the aid of Angrboda the witch who taught him the words and the rituals. Sometimes Helblindi thought that Loki made them just to prove that he could. The other times he thought his brother felt lonely, and it made him uncomfortable and guilty.

“If only I could do something,” Helblindi said without thinking. Laufey's fist missed him by the inches and struck the wall, shattering a portion of it.

“Now you cannot do anything,” he whispered. Helblindi stepped back, almost stumbled into his brother, who apparently thought that the best survival technique was to stand still and silent, and hope that Laufey would mistake him for a stone statue. He envied the wolf and the serpent. Nobody expected them to talk.

“They invited me to Asgard,” Laufey dropped broken shards of ice to the floor. He didn't seem to notice dark blood dripping from his fingers. “I shall come. You will come with me, all of you, you will see what has become of your brother and what price we are to pay for our kin.”

He turned away again, to the window. His voice suddenly sounded broken.

“I swear, if they harmed him, I shall give them the war they love so much.”

* 

If anyone asked him, Thor would insist that he was doing it out of respect for his mother. In fact, he did not fear her disappointment or wanted to die of shame at her ladies' whispering, and certainly did not notice at all glances cast in his direction by the einherjar, the Valkyries, the other gods and generally by anyone. He would stand by his point even when faced with threat of death. 

In any case, he personally supervised moving the prisoner into better quarters and getting a healer to him. The manacles stayed, obviously. The Jotunn may have been no simple thief, but Thor had no wish to experience his magic for his own. Laufeyson had woken up halfway through the process and wasted no time in insulting Thor's wits, his hair, his clothes and his wits again. After a ninth or so sarcastic remark Thor was tempted to wring his neck and endure the consequences. Even his parents' wrath seemed to be an agreeable alternative. 

Finally he could sit down in a chair on the other side of the room, watch the healer clean and bandage the Jotunn less than gently and try his best to squash all the thoughts about murder. Laufeyson started behaving as if he was a visiting dignitary and should be treated as such within minutes, magical manacles and ragged clothing notwithstanding. He wore only a pair of trousers and a sleeveless vest under his green cloak with a fur collar, an outfit more fitted to a wandering warrior than a King's son. Thor wavered between anger and curiosity. The Jotunn's narrow face betrayed nothing. The lines on his forehead, cheeks and chin formed a simple, harmonious pattern, his slender horns curved slightly above his head. Thick streams of black hair cascaded down his back nearly to his waist. He was the strangest Jotunn Thor had ever seen and he could not help being fascinated and enraged at the same time. This strange mix of feelings did nothing good for his mood.

“The All-father is going to be here tonight,” Thor said after a while, anything to break the silence. He watched the Jotunn for a reaction, any kind of reaction, but there was nothing save for a brief moment of stillness, a quick tension of his shoulders.

“Finally someone worth talking to.” The Jotunn smirked at him. Thor wanted to punch him. The healer finished with his ministrations, bowed and left slightly faster than it was entirely appropriate. 

“You are going to regret this,” Thor said just to have something to say.

“Listening to you talk? Certainly. I am regretting it at this very moment.”

They sat for a while in silence. 

“Care to tell me what do you find so fascinating about me?” asked Laufeyson, smiling like a cat which not only managed to catch a canary, but also a fish and drink all the cream in a jug.

“What?”

“You are not very clever, are you?”

Thor could see very clearly his hands on this slender, blue neck, fingers digging into skin, hear every little choked noise. Even if Laufeyson could see his intent on his face, he never stopped smiling.

* 

Whatever the healer gave him, must have worked, because pain became rather dull and unimportant, but it also made Loki very sleepy. When Odin's oaf of a son finally left in a huff, it took Loki all but five seconds to fall asleep again. However, he woke up to a different set of eyes altogether – eye – watching him and suddenly wished he had not slept at all.

“I did not expect someone like you here,” the All-father told him in a flat voice. Loki resisted the urge to draw his knees to his chest. He met Odin's gaze as steadily as he could. 

“I did not expect to be here at all,” Loki said. He didn't like the sound of his own voice, high and strained. 

A raven sat perched at the edge of the bed and cawed at him mockingly. Its twin stayed on Odin's other shoulder, watching Loki with one beady, gleaming eye. Are you Thought or Memory, Loki wanted to ask it, just for the comfort of knowing. The rumor had it that Odin traded his eye for knowledge, sold it like a sack of wheat, though Loki knew that the scars visible from under his eye-patch were the mark of his father's claws.

“And yet here you are,” Odin said. He was watching him greedily, as if he was given a strange and unexpected gift and did not know yet what to do with it.

“I quite enjoy your hospitality, All-father,” Loki finally managed to get his face and voice under control again. It would not do at all to break down here where Odin could see him, even if Loki felt cold sweat gathering on his brow and his hands trembling. 

“Don't you,” Odin did not turn it into a question.

“Truly, the legend does not do you justice,” Loki forced himself to smile. Odin did not raise to a bait. 

“Your father should be here shortly,” he said after a few moments of heavy silence. Loki started, unable to contain his expression for a second. “You will come with me and hear what mighty Laufey has to say.”

* 

Even when evening fell on Asgard the heat was oppressive. Laufey felt hot trickles of sweat trailing down his back, his face. He refused to wipe them. The Bifrost stretched before him, seemingly infinite, the city only a distant golden gleam on the horizon. How Laufey had wanted, how he had desired to see this place, to conquer it, break the shining spires and turn the shimmering sea into ice, but it was ages, millennia ago. He liked to think that he was now older, wiser. He would not go to war to kill and subjugate, even when his blood called for it. There was more glory in living and surviving than in dying senselessly. They still had to rebuild much of Jotunheim, a seemingly impossible task without the Casket. Sometimes Laufey wondered whether Odin knew, truly realized what they had taken.

It was of little importance anymore. 

Somehow Farbauti had found out about the whole disaster and showed up at Laufey's threshold with demands and advice before they left. Leave the runt alone, he said. You have more important matters to worry about. Let the Aesir kill him and good riddance.

When Laufey was leaving, they were still trying to wipe the blood from the walls.

He didn't kill Farbauti, even though his blood screamed for it. He had little love left for him anymore, not since the ages when whatever was between them withered and died. Laufey mourned it sometimes, all the lost chances and broken bonds, but he had a weight of a crown of ice on his head, a responsibility. He had three sons and strange grandchildren, and while they left him sometimes baffled in the fashion of all growing children everywhere, he was content. As content as the King of Jotunheim could be.

However, on that day he discovered he could still hate.

There was enough ice and Winter left in him to wage a war, a war they had no chance of winning, only of spilling more and more blood onto the ground. He was prepared to do it. Only this little, offhand chance of negotiations, of getting his son back without bloodshed, stayed his hand. His warriors remained in Jotunheim. His hands were empty, free of ice. He took only his sons and his grandchildren as his entourage. He was reasonably certain that no force of arms would help him if the All-father decided to betray him. Besides, Laufey and his sons were fighters of considerable strength, and Fenrir the wolf was a fierce warrior when roused to anger, and seeing his father in such distress would certainly give him ample reason. Laufey felt better having them all at his back, large shapes of his sons, the mountain of fur and rage which was Fenrir, even the small figure of Hel with Jormungandr slithering in her shadow. The green, shining serpent was still small, but growing steadily and Laufey sometimes found himself wondering whether Loki had thought his creations through all that well. 

Odin apparently did not think him a threat or wanted to appear so, because his entourage was even smaller. A broad-shouldered young man whom Laufey recognized as his son, his golden-haired wife, and four young warriors stood behind him. However, Laufey had eyes only for his son and it took him all of his willpower to quench his fury at seeing him like that. They had taken Loki's fur cloak and jewelery and gems, they had put him in chains to bind his magic. Standing like that he seemed small, vulnerable and very young, nothing like the self-assured prince and sorcerer Laufey was used to seeing. 

Loki's stony expression wavered for a second when he saw his father. Laufey felt tiny shards of ice gathering around his fingers, along his arms. He willed them away with an effort. This called for subtlety, and implicit threat of his blade would do nothing good. 

“I wish we could meet under better circumstances, Laufey,” Odin called. Laufey forced his voice to come out cold and steady.

“There are no better circumstances for us,” he growled, stopping at a distance from Odin. He could not help feeling a flash of grim satisfaction when he noticed old, white scars under his eye-patch. He was the only one throughout all the ages to wound him so. Only Odin's damned pride was the reason to construct an elaborate lie around it.

Odin inclined his head, as if in acquiescence. 

“You took my son, my blood kin, and expect me to come agreeably?”

One of the ravens perched on Odin's shoulders cawed at him in mockery. Laufey hated them, spent years upon years trying to devise a way to keep them out of Jotunheim and found none. Thanks to them and Heimdall's unwavering eyesight very little escaped Odin's notice. 

“'Tis a sad coincidence, and your son's fault. He should not have come to steal what belongs to us. There must be consequences, Laufey.”

Laufey could see Loki's faint flinch. He tried to convey with his eyes that he would never leave him alone. Loki's trust was a fragile thing, easy to destroy, difficult to build. His strange son never stopped trying to gain something he already had. Laufey would never cast someone he bore out of his family, despite of how he looked like, but Loki never seemed sure of that.

“But maybe something good can come out of that,” Odin said softly. “I have seen how your realm fares without the Casket. Do not lie to me. You will die, maybe not today, maybe not in this age, but you will.”

“Is that a threat? We may be weakened, our halls in shambles, but we can still raze the earth and leave wounds on your realm which will take millennia to heal.” Laufey's voice could match Odin's for its mildness, but it carried an edge of ice.

“There is no need for that,” Frigga spoke for the first time. Laufey always had more respect for her than for her husband. She was clever enough to have a gift of foresight and wise enough not to share what she saw. “That was me who sent this invitation for you, Laufey. We need peace, something lasting, not built on resentment.”

Laufey felt the first stab of fear like a punch to the gut. Before that, he was angry, he hated, he planned waging a war for vengeance. Now he could glimpse the future devious Aesir decided on. The worst part was, he could see them winning. Not in combat, not even in negotiations, because every Jotunn would agree that they offered a fair bargain, but not Laufey, because he could not bear to pay the price. The child he carried, bore and loved was not a bargaining chip, not a relic to be traded.

“No,” he whispered, his voice like ice grinding. “I would never stand by it.”

“Be reasonable, Laufey,” Odin chided. Laufey longed to see his bright red blood on his blade again. “We don't want to harm you or your family. You have been less than trustworthy in the past, but I believe we can forge something good now, a good peace. But I need a token of your good faith before we can return the Casket to you.”

“If you think,” Laufey whispered. “If you think I value Winter, even the most ancient of Winters above my own blood and flesh, you know very little of me, All-father.”

He could hear anguished whispers of his sons behind his back, quiet stillness of Hel, faint growling and hissing. Loki could be an ice statue. Laufey could see disbelief deep in his eyes. He wanted to grab him by the arms and shake him, until he saw reason, that he had nothing to prove to him, that he never needed to try so hard. The thought that he may never have a chance to say it again caused him pain which was almost physical.

Above all, above being father, he was King.

“Your son can stay here, in Asgard, as our honored guest,” Frigga said mildly. There was calm in her eyes, and what was worse, understanding. She was a mother, too. “Not in chains, not in the cell. In return we shall give the Casket of Ancient Winters to you. Go home, Laufey. Rebuild it. It has gone on long enough. We can live in peace, we can form a lasting alliance. No harm will come to your child.”

There was an anguished cry behind his back, but he had no heart to chastise Helblindi for showing weakness in front of an enemy. Frigga's bargain – he had no doubt that she had come up with it, no matter how it may have pained her to do so – was fair, more than fair. The Aesir kept hostages for years upon years and usually held to their alliances. Jotunheim needed the Casket more than it needed Loki, and Laufey was King.

“Father,” Loki said suddenly, his voice shaking, pleading. “Father, please. Take it and leave. I can do this. I should do this.”

Laufey refused to look at him. 

“How could I leave my child here, alone among enemies? I wouldn't trust you to watch over a pack of wolves, let alone my son.”

“It's only fitting that I paid a price for my own stupidity,” Loki said. 

“Name other price. Anything, but not my child,” Laufey locked his eyes on Odin. He did not want to see his son trembling, his mask of calm shattered. 

“Do you think you have something we may want among your broken homes and frozen earth?” Odin smiled bitterly. “I need a guarantee that you will never set foot in Midgard again. I thought that the Casket will do, but your destruction was never my intent. Neither is harming your child.”

“How can I know?” Laufey's words were hard, biting. “How can I know that he won't suffer for imagined transgressions on my part? That you won't take your damned revenge on him when I cannot see him? Look at him, All-father. Blood of my blood. You will never have him, you hear me? Never.”

“Please,” Loki's voice was no louder than a whisper. “I can take care of myself. It is the best choice. They are right, Father, we need the Casket more than one sorcerer.”

“Not a word more from you, child,” Laufey warned.

Neither Odin nor Frigga said anything. They knew, Laufey thought, they knew that his protests would be for naught in the end, for he could not afford to have a chance to win back the Casket slip by. 

“Let us stay with him,” Laufey started when he heard Hel speak. She was a silent child, conscious of her appearance and origin. She would rather talk to her brothers and watch other Jotunn without uttering a word. There was little that escaped Hel attention, though she was still a young child. Her hand was buried in Fenrir's fur, trembling slightly. “We could watch each other's backs and we won't be missed in Jotunheim. We can still act as a token of your good faith, all four of us.”

Odin eyed the girl, the wolf and the serpent doubtfully.

“Are we harboring monsters in Asgard now?” Odinson's voice was too loud, too sudden in silence. Frigga pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation.

“Silence, child, when the elders are speaking.”

“Father--” 

One look from Odin silenced his son much more effectively. The young man pointedly looked away, red-faced. If Laufey had had a child like that, he would have driven this arrogance out of him much earlier.

“Why would I agree to that?” Odin addressed Laufey, Loki and Hel at the same time. Loki's expression was suddenly thoughtful, with a devious edge. Laufey realized that his son had a plan and that he had no way to stop it in time. He gritted his teeth, suppressed his rage violently before it lashed out.

“I would make you a gift, All-father,” Loki said with something approaching respect. It was a lie, but nobody but his family knew him well enough to recognize it for what it was. “I would present you with my creation in return for letting my children stay with me.”

Odin looked mildly interested.

“I once made a horse with my magic, the swiftest horse in all nine realms,” Loki offered. “He would be my gift to you, as a proof of my good intentions.”

Of course Loki would do something like that. Laufey suddenly wanted to smack him, or maybe himself. He could see no way out of this, no way to prevent this unwanted sacrifice which would let him return to Jotunheim victorious. He never desired anything less.

“I would agree to this,” said Odin after a moment's hesitation. He looked at Laufey with a gleam in his single eye. “Your child has more reason than you, Laufey. Would you refuse to honor this sacrifice, freely offered?”

“I wish to speak with my son for a moment,” Laufey grated. “Alone.”

Odin looked like he wanted to refuse, but Frigga put a hand silently on his arm and he conceded. “Go ahead.”

Laufey watched them all step aside, his sons eyeing Odin's entourage suspiciously. He threw caution to the wind, embraced Loki fiercely, clanking chains and all. Then he drew away, dug his fingers into his son's shoulder and shook him, wordlessly. Loki let him, his face closed and dark again.

“Why did you do it?” Laufey asked after a long, long while, when he could trust his voice again not to tremble. “Why did you come here, why did you get caught, why do you insist on this insanity?”

Loki's words were steady, careful.

“I never planned on getting caught,” he said. “I just wanted to find something and get out, quickly. I was betrayed and they waited for me. However, I think it is for the best, Father. You will get the Casket back. You need it, we all do.”

You will get rid of me, came silently after. Laufey shook him again. He loosened his fingers reluctantly when he heard Loki's quiet hiss of pain.

“It's not worth it,” he said with desperation. “It has never been. And now I am to lose not only you, but the children as well? You gave me a hollow and false victory, Loki.”

“I gave you peace,” Loki hissed. “I gave you prosperity.”

“Losing you was not a price I was prepared to give,” Laufey's voice sounded old and weary even to his own ears. “I would gladly endure another thousand years without the Casket. There would be some other way, eventually.”

“All this while our people starve and die?”

“We are strong. It would be enough.”

“No, Father.” Loki sighed. “You know that is not true. You are lying to yourself. It is the best choice. I can survive it, I won't be alone. I can learn more, so if I can ever return to Jotunheim, we can use that knowledge.”

“You should not be forced to do this,” Laufey protested. He knew that the matter was already decided and there was nothing he could do about it, even if helplessness was tearing him apart.

“It's all right, Father,” Loki murmured. He looked down, at Jormungandr, who apparently got bored watching them, and slithered up Loki's arm, curling around his neck. Loki stroked bright green scales absently and seemed to communicate somehow with the serpent, judging from his focused expression. Laufey never doubted that both Fenrir and Jormungandr could talk, just chose not to do so very often.

“I will have them watching over me,” Loki said. His smile was so obviously forced that Laufey reached and embraced him again, ignoring Jormungandr's annoyed hiss. 

“Stay safe,” he whispered. “All of you. If I ever hear that any harm have come to any of you, I will tear the realms apart. Never doubt that.”

* 

Loki felt his mask of calm almost failing when he watched his father and brothers walk away and disappear into the Bifrost, carrying the blue flame of the Casket. He kept reminding himself that it was all for a good cause, but the sheer hopelessness of it left him nearly choking on tears. Stupid, it was everything he wanted and more. He managed to return the Casket to his family and get himself away from them at the same time, so Laufey would never have to endure the taunts about his existence again. Loki had no delusions that he had any place in Jotunheim. He would gladly remain in the shadow of the throne, but every ruler who even partially depended on him would find their reign undermined. Most Jotnar hated Loki. Hardly more than he hated himself, but it was an inconvenience nonetheless.

Suddenly there was a little cold hand in his. He looked down, at Hel. Her thin light hair danced in the wind, her single eye was as solemn and thoughtful as always, the other an empty blackened socket. She offered him half a smile, a rare sight he had learned to treasure. He squeezed his strange, silent daughter's hand, smiled at her in return. Jormungandr slithered down his arm to her, wrapped himself over her thin shoulders. Fenrir stood near them, a quiet, menacing presence. Loki suddenly felt his spirits rise. He regretted getting his children into this mess with him, but they were better off together.

He looked at Odin and his family, and felt his honest smile dissolve into a smirk.

“Shall we go back? I would like to get these chains off, if you please.”


	2. Chapter 2

The walk back to Asgard was long and quiet. Loki contented himself with talking silently to his children, ignoring glances Odinson and young warriors cast in his direction. He needed to get a mask in place, a deception, and soon. It would not do to have them disrespect him, but on the other hand he wanted them to underestimate him as much as it was possible without endangering himself. A harmless hostage would not be watched as closely as a seidrmadr of his power would be. Revealing the full extent of his abilities would put him under suspicion and possibly in danger. Some would want to use him, the others to destroy him for being a sorcerer in addition to wanting to destroy him for being a Jotunn.

He hummed a haunting melody under his breath and plotted.

As promised, they took the chains off him and he choked on air when magics and colors returned to his world in a rush. Everything was in his head again, runes and circles, words and offerings, illusions and cutting knives, waiting to be used again. They gave him back his gems and jewelery and returned his cloak, which would be of little use to him in the Asgardian heat anyway. They withheld his weapons, a spear and a long knife, but he didn't bother to insist. They would refuse him anyway, and besides his mind was the most dangerous weapon at his disposal.

Then he went to fulfill his part in the bargain and summoned Sleipnir. Odin had him saddled and then put him through his paces, badly concealing greed and wonder. The eight-legged steed was the very first of Loki's creations, from before he went to meet the witch and learn her secrets, and even though Sleipnir was little more than an animal, he was clever and beautiful, but not intelligent like Fenrir or Jormungandr were. Loki wished he could have avoided giving him to All-father. Sleipnir was a work of his hands and shouldn't be anyone's to take. 

Odinson came to stand next to him and watched his father tensely, without bothering to conceal worry. Loki raised one eyebrow at him, hands full of jewels.

“I'm not planning to give your father a horse which may kill him,” he said, not intending his voice to be reassuring in the least. Odinson glanced at him, his blue eyes burning with anger. He grimaced.

“Is it true, what they say? That you lay with a stallion and bore the horse yourself?”

Loki could not help laughing. Count on Odin's son to entertain this old rumor.

“Of course not. Why would I bother? I created him out of earth and ice and blood, but I had no idea how a horse should look like.” He shrugged. “I wanted one nonetheless. As you see, it worked out well in the end, even with the wrong number of limbs.”

Odinson huffed, but his shoulders never relaxed. His hand strayed close to the hammer he carried on his belt. Loki took note of engravings and realized it was Mjolnir itself. Why would Odin give his fool of a son such a powerful weapon was truly beyond him.

“I hope Father has a good reason for keeping monsters under our roof,” Odinson said finally and stomped away. Loki watched him for a moment talking with his father and then glanced at Hel, still close at his side.

“It should be easier than we thought, shouldn't it, kitten?” he murmured.

She gave him a small nod and wandered away to talk with Fenrir.

Soon after they showed him to his chambers and thankfully left him alone. He had no delusions that he wasn't being watched. Surely the All-father would keep an eye on him, to ensure his good behavior. Loki planned on behaving very well, at least until he discerned the extent of his freedom and also how careful Odin's vigilance was. 

He found the chambers pleasant enough, with windows facing north, so he got the least amount of sunlight. He suspected it was Frigga's doing. He had a bedroom with a large, too-soft bed, another, smaller one for Hel, a bathroom – apparently they didn't want to subject the locals to the dangers of cleaning themselves with the Jotunn – and a rather big living room. The shelves were empty, the cupboards contained the basic necessities. Everything was decorated in ever-present golds and burnished reds, and the furniture looked good, if a bit worn. The air was fresh, but he could still smell traces of dust. These rooms must have been closed for a while. They apparently had little idea what to do with his children, so they must have decided to keep them together.

“Shall we find a library tomorrow?” he asked Hel. She had been following him silently when he explored the chambers, and now she sat with her back propped on Fenrir's, who decided he had enough excitement for a day and curled on the floor in front of the empty fireplace to sleep. Jormungandr was coiled nearby, one beady eye observing his surroundings.

“I do hope they have one,” he murmured, when his daughter nodded her acquiescence. 

He took a bath, relieved to no end to be able to wash away grime and sweat from his skin. Cold water eased the heat a bit and he immediately felt much better. The Aesir used a strange soap, soft and with floral fragrance, and he wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. It worked, anyway. After a few moments of searching he found a comb and sat in front of the mirror to brush and braid his hair again. It took him quite a long time to get rid of tangles and put it into some semblance of order. Not many Jotnar had any hair at all or preferred to shave them, and because of that it was highly prized, but caring for it was sometimes a hassle. Loki wove gleaming shards of amber and golden thread into his braid and felt a little more like himself.

There was something he wanted to try, a variation on a familiar spell. Illusions came to him as easily as breathing, but he needed more than a simple glamour, something to hide his horns, to make his face smooth and unmarred by markings, as much as the mere thought disgusted him. Soft pink skin, eyes as green as his cloak, like Asgardian spring, this new form was equally exciting as repulsing. He could wear a new shape like a second skin, so easily that it scared him sometimes. Seidr rippled along his skin, banishing blue, smoothing his markings, turning his eyes green. A stranger's face looked at him from the mirror, a hornless, pink-skinned creature. He supposed he was attractive in this form, at least to the Aesir, but he found this one lie to taste like ash on his tongue. Still, it was a useful trick to have. He returned to normal with a sigh of relief.

“Do you think it's wise?” 

He turned around, met Hel's red gaze. When he brought her forth from blood and magic, he thought, for a moment, that her disfigured face was his failure, his mistake. He had long learned to find beauty in her, two halves to the same being, soft skin on one side and withered flesh on the other. She was otherworldly, magical, and he was so proud of her that it sometimes hurt.

“This magic?” He shrugged. “I don't know. I thought it may come in handy.”

She stared at him wordlessly.

“You think I shouldn't let them forget who I am,” he mused aloud. “What I am here for. You may have a point here, kitten. However, if something calls for subtlety, I would like to have my possibilities open. Do not worry, I'm still me. Whatever happens.”

She studied him for a long moment and finally nodded, as if reassured by his words. He went over to the children, kissed her forehead, ran his fingers through thick fur on Fenrir's neck, brushed bright green scales of Jormungandr's back. The wolf grumbled deeply in response, opened one eye to look at him and went back to sleep. 

“He may have a good idea here,” Loki told Hel. “Let's try to catch some sleep before we try venturing out.”

In the morning the servants came and took measurements from him and Hel for some new clothes. They spoke in hushed voices and avoided looking him in the face. He debated with himself whether to call attention to it, but eventually decided against it. They would have a lot of time to get used to him, and there was no use in rushing things along. After that they brought breakfast, flat cakes, fruit and steaming tea for Loki and Hel, raw meat for Fenrir and Jormungandr. They ate in companionable silence, even though Hel sipped a bit of her tea suspiciously and refused to drink more. He made note to tell somebody about it and ask to bring them water or juice next time. 

There was no word from Odin and Loki surmised that the All-father was waiting for his reaction. He was going to indulge him, although maybe not in a way Odin expected. 

Loki gathered his family when they were finished and went to look around a bit. Apparently Odin warned the courtiers and servants beforehand about Loki's presence, because apart from several nasty looks he got a rather muted reaction. Under different circumstances he would gladly try to play some pranks, wreak some havoc, but he had yet to get his bearings. He wasn't sure about his position, either, though in this case he would have to take some action himself and steer matters to his advantage.

In the courtyard he came upon the warriors sparring just in time to see Odinson getting knocked flat on his back by the dark-haired shieldmaiden. He kept any traces of amusement carefully off his face, though he had to admire their skill. Odinson may have been a fool, but he seemed a formidable warrior and Loki would be reluctant to face him in a straight-up fight. After a moment's consideration he would extend this sentiment to the other warriors. Considering that the shieldmaiden had already bested him once, it only seemed a wise precaution.

He meant to go back inside before they could see him, but he wasn't fast enough. There was a nasty spark in Odinson's eyes. The big warrior got up, collected his training weapon and called to Loki.

“Come here, let's try something,” he said. Loki considered an illusion to cover his hasty retreat. He had a sudden sense of foreboding. Unfortunately, he could see no way how to avoid confrontation and save his pride, or at least the semblance of it.

“I can't wait,” he said dryly, gesturing to his children to stand back. Fenrir showed his teeth and growled, deep and savage. Loki patted his shoulders reassuringly. He was sure that Odinson meant him no lasting harm. Well, reasonably sure.

“I want to see what you've got,” Odinson grumbled. His hair was in disarray, his clothing and hair covered in mud. The shieldmaiden tugged at his elbow and whispered something frantically, but he brushed her aside.

“Well, here I am.” Loki was relieved to see that they were nearly of a height, though Odinson was at least twice as wide in the shoulders as he was. “I can feel my intellect draining away already,” he couldn't help adding. Odinson's face darkened.

“Spar with me,” he demanded, tossing the training hammer from one hand to the other.

“I'd like to remain whole and healthy, thank you very much,” Loki tried, but with little hope. Odinson seemed like somebody who wouldn't budge once he set his mind on something. “Swordplay was never my forte. Besides, you took away my weapons.”

The shieldmaiden tossed him a training sword, a short one, not unlike the long knife he was used to carrying. He managed to catch it in the last moment. Odinson was grinning already, a red wolfish smile, and moving back into the sparring circle. Loki had but moments to decide. He could see no way to back out now, not without seeming too weak to his purposes. Even though he had little chance to defeat the big warrior in combat, refusing it altogether would only make matters worse.

His brothers loved fighting, loved training. He usually stayed away from the sparring rings, being small and more interested in seidr anyway. Of course he knew his way around weapons, could fight with a knife and a spear, but preferred to avoid it wherever possible. Besides, physical exercise when most of his sparring partners were much bigger and stronger than he was never seemed very appealing. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

Loki snorted, affecting nonchalance.

“Of you? Only if you trip and harm me by accident.”

He had little more than taunts, anyway. Maybe if he could make Odinson angry enough to make mistakes, he could win. It was a small possibility nonetheless. From the look of him, from the way he moved, like a predator, from muscles bulging on his arms and his wide chest, he could see very easily that Odinson was a seasoned warrior. Not the smartest one, obviously, but with enough brute strength and endurance to defeat smaller and weaker opponent. Exactly the one like Loki, if he hesitated to resort to seidr. 

The first blow came unexpected. He realized at once that Odinson never meant it to be a friendly spar. Loki barely managed to dodge the swing in time and parry the next one. Strength of the blow nearly numbed his arms. He tried to strike on his own, but Odinson easily swatted his blade aside. Loki danced around him, faster by a fraction, yet he knew he tired easily and was no match for the golden oaf in contest of pure power. Every strike he attempted to land was met effortlessly, parried or evaded. Conversely, Odinson managed to hit him twice, on the shoulder and just beneath his ribs. His whole body seemed to hurt.

He wove a small spell in his mind, just to make him appear a few inches to the side from where he really was. It seemed to work for a while, but Odinson learned quickly, as if it was exactly the kind of betrayal he expected from the Jotunn. Loki by pure luck managed to land one blow on him, high on the shoulder. Odinson showed no pain. Loki felt anger blooming in him, black cold fury, at this world, at all the injustices he was forced to suffer, at himself at last for being such a failure. Most of all, he hated Odinson before him, laughing so easily, defeating him with no effort.

There was a storm of ice shards, a crack of earth being split open, a sudden rush of frost. Soil beneath his feet froze in a heartbeat, suddenly treacherous, slippery. Odinson yelped and stumbled, nearly losing his hammer, but then the other warriors came at Loki. There was some screaming, he realized distantly. Suddenly he was flat at his back, the end of wooden hammer pressed to his throat. He reined his magic in after a while and tried to take a breath. 

“I won,” Odinson said with distaste. There was snow in his hair, frost melting on his eyelashes. His knee was pressed to Loki's chest and this was the reason why breathing was so hard. “You cheated.”  
The pressure eased and Loki managed to sit up. His anger dissipated, and he was mainly ashamed of himself, to lose control like that. Cheating that didn't allow him to win was a waste of time and resources. He noted that his hands were trembling. 

“Aye.” He curled his lips in a grimace which could never be called a smile. Everything hurt, again, even his head. He could not bear the warriors' disdainful glances. “I hope you have satisfied your curiosity. Carry on, don't mind me.”

He limped away and pretended for a while he was not fleeing.

Loki would have spent the rest of the day locked in his chambers, sulking and licking his wounds, but it had seemed too much like cowardice. Instead he healed his bruises drop by drop under Hel's concerned gaze. Fenrir insisted on following him close at his heels, bumping his shoulders onto his legs occasionally and nearly knocking him down. Now he kept his head in Loki's lap, staring at him with reddish eyes. Loki managed a smile, a honest one this time.

“What about this library again?” he asked, aiming for lighthearted and failing.

“You should not have done this,” Hel said, ignoring his question.

“Lost to Odinson?”

“Lost control,” she clarified solemnly. “Be more careful, please.”

He had never heard this tone from her. Her small face was closed, worried. She squeezed his hand surprisingly hard until it hurt and her fingers left marks on his skin.

“I know,” he sighed. “Have you acquired a habit of stating the obvious?”

She frowned, apparently unimpressed with him.

“They will hate you,” she whispered. “They already do. We can't be everywhere, see everything. If something happens to you...”

“Oh, kitten,” he said, hating how strangled the words came out. “I have never meant for this to happen to you.”

“What if they find out how powerful you are?” She ignored his previous comment. “They will use you, somehow. Odin would never let a weapon lay unused if he can find some purpose to it.”

Loki took her hand, stood up, shoved Fenrir gently aside. Sleepy Jormungandr curled around her shoulders lifted his head and hissed angrily. Loki scratched his scales to appease him.

“You are right, of course. Come on, we shouldn't hide here too long anyway. Let's go read something and appear very, very harmless.”

The library was a vast, bright room, nearly deserted save for few silent scholars who paid them little notice. Loki managed to convince the wolf and the serpent to remain in their rooms and stay out of trouble. They were rather conspicuous, and had little patience for learning anyway, unlike him and Hel. They claimed a small table for themselves in a remote corner of the library and he left to find them some books, trying in vain to keep his hands from shaking. 

He felt as if he wore a constricting set of clothing, another skin above his own. He could move freely enough, but it still set his nerves on edge, he was sweating, hair on his neck standing. Nobody paid him any attention. After all, he looked ordinary, common for this realm, invisible in his false skin, pink-skinned and green-eyed, with no horns to curve above his head, with no markings to proclaim him as Laufey's descendant. It was frightening, liberating.

There were some Vanir books on seidr which caught his attention and after a few moments of searching he found a history book which Hel might be interested in. He returned to their table to find her still and silent. She did not move an inch. On the other chair there was a woman sitting, regal and golden-haired, smiling at Hel slightly.

“Lady Frigga,” Loki said blandly.

She glanced at him, but it took her a moment to recognize him. She flinched visibly.

“Do you find it necessary?” she asked mildly.

Instead of answering, he took a seat next to his daughter, gave one book to her, opened the other and stared at the text, but letters never seemed to form the words. He didn't know what had he done to deserve Frigga's kindness, but he suspected it was a double-edged sword.

“No,” he answered lightly, forcing a smile. “But entertaining and convenient.”

It was her turn to be silent. She craned her neck, read the title of his book.

“Freyja may help you with that,” she said. “She knows more about seidr than anyone else here, maybe save my husband, but I don't think you would gladly accept his help.”

“Ah, yes,” he curled his lip, not bothering to hide his distaste. “Lady Freyja. The other hostage.”

“She has long learned to find joy here,” there was a hint of sadness in Frigga's voice. “It doesn't make it less painful, but bearable. I wish there was some other way.”

“The matter is purely academic now,” he was inclined to believe her, but would never say so aloud. “We are here, she and I both. And we're never going away, aren't we.”

He never bothered to make his last sentence a question. Frigga's guilty expression told him everything he needed to know. 

“You are welcome to join us at Fensalir,” she said after a long moment, accepting his accusation with a nod. He discovered that he could not hate her. “You may find my gardens a more appealing place than my son's fighting ring.” Her lip curled. “Rest assured that I will take care of the matter.”

“Thank you, Lady Frigga,” he said neutrally after a moment's hesitation. He felt he should fight his own battles, but having the All-father wife as a tentative ally was too good a chance to pass by. She gave him a small smile.

“You should wear your own face when you come,” she said before she inclined her head to them and left.

*

Thor was feeling rather ashamed of himself, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He managed to win the fight, even though the Jotunn tried to resort to treachery, but it left him unsatisfied and restless. The look which Laufeyson cast him as he left could have frozen water in his eyes. Normally he wouldn't care, he wouldn't, if it wasn't for Frigga and her vague disappointment. Thor had learned to fear her “I'm not angry, I'm disappointed” speeches since he knew how to understand words. 

He knew he should not have picked a fight with Laufeyson. The Jotunn was small, probably still weak from the wounds he had taken. Under normal circumstances he would never have done this, would never challenged a guest unless he asked first. However, Thor was still angry about being defeated by Sif – again – and lashed out without thinking. He thought about finding Laufeyson and apologizing, but again, why should he feel sorry for winning a fight with a frost giant in his own home? 

“Mother's being unreasonable,” he complained to Sif during supper, when they sat together at one of the tables and ate. The Jotunn was nowhere in sight. Thor suspected that Frigga arranged for meals being delivered to him, as if he deserved special treatment for being a thief.

Sif shrugged.

“I guess she does what she thinks is best. But why should we treat the Jotunn differently? You asked him to fight. He could have refused.” She snorted, as if such a sentiment was beyond her. 

“I don't know.” Thor was too young to remember the days when the Vanir guests came to Asgard for the first time, but he was certain they behaved better than that. 

“Well, that's new,” Sif smirked at him and finished her glass of wine. 

“Maybe that's because he's a sorcerer,” Thor mused. “He must hate an honest contest of strength, must be too used to winning through tricks and deception.”

Sif murmured something absently, watching somebody crossing the floor and sitting alone in a dim corner. Thor tried to recall the stranger's face, but drew a blank. This black braid and calculating eyes seemed somehow familiar, but he couldn't place them.

“I don't know why Mother insist that I treat him well,” he resumed, putting the stranger out of his mind. “He certainly doesn't invite kindness, does he?”

“Do you think he's planning something?”

Thor thought about it for a moment.

“Probably,” he conceded. “Shall we watch him?”

“I guess it wouldn't hurt.” She sounded doubtful, though. “However, 'twas your mother who arranged for him to be there. Your father agreed. Aren't we presuming too much? We should trust their judgment.”

“A little caution wouldn't go amiss,” he argued. He knew his friend would agree anyway, to humor him if for nothing else.

*

Frigga had allowed Fenrir and Jormungandr to run freely in her gardens and Loki thought he could hear the wolf's howling in the distance, faint sounds of leaves rustling under the serpent's body. Hel, however, seemed ill at ease with bright morning sun and nearly a dozen of people present. He could see their glances, revulsion and pity aimed at her, and felt his own anger rise in response. He quenched it with effort, putting an arm protectively around his daughter's shoulders and glaring at the ladies until they reddened and averted their eyes. At Frigga's insistence, he dissolved the spell which gave him the appearance of an As, and his skin seemed to burn in the sun. They had some clothes made for them, loose and covering most of their bodies, but Loki could see first traces of sunburn on his daughter's pale face, feel faint tingling on his own. He only hated this damned place more.

The ladies were chattering among themselves or doing handiwork, mostly embroidery. There was a couple of Valkyries standing nearby, shining and beautiful in their armor, with their weapons glittering in the sun. He had never met any of them on the battlefield, but Laufey did and Loki saw the scars. The whole scene seemed strange to him, quiet, serene. A musician was sitting on a bench not far away, and the sound of plucking harp strings was a bit surreal. He walked foreign worlds in his life and saw a lot, but never actually participated in something like that, peaceful, even lazy, with no immediate practical result in sight. In Jotunheim there was always something to do, even if one was a King's son, walls to rebuild, clothes to mend, hunting to be done. Loki felt restless, a stranger in his own body.

“Why don't you sit with us?” Frigga asked. He had not seen her coming. He smiled, rose, bowed slightly. She was wearing a shimmering dress of some strange fabric he had never seen before, radiant in her beauty.

“You're sitting in the sun.” They took the only bench which was partway hidden in the tree's shadow.

“Oh.” She seemed embarrassed for a second. “I can see why it can be a problem.”

“It's quite all right, my lady,” he said, trying for reassuring and falling a bit short of the mark. “We have some books to read and your gardens are very beautiful. We have nothing quite like that in Jotunheim.”

They used to, he recalled, a whole garden of stone and ice. His brother Byleistr tried to rebuild it after it shattered, year after year, and failed every time. Frigga sat next to Loki with a rustling of skirts, looking at him with something like compassion. He couldn't have born pity, but he realized that he quite enjoyed her company. Besides, she could look Hel straight in the eye and greet her properly without pause.

“Thank you,” she said gracefully. “I hope my son haven't been bothering you anymore.”

He snorted before he could stop himself.

“I'm afraid your son lacks the power of observation the gods gave a mouse. I walked before him many times and he never recognized me.”

“It seems like something he would do.” She grimaced, massaging her temples. “My son... has a good heart, strange as it may seem to you. But let me say that he would be no rival in a contest of wits.”

Loki thought it was a mild way of saying it.

“I'm sorry for what he had done to you. It was unbecoming of him and he should never done that. I would have him apologize to you, publicly, if I had any chance of imposing my will on him. He has grown rather headstrong of late, I'm afraid.”

“I have no wish of crossing his path again,” Loki said dryly. “I hope he would extend the same courtesy to me.”

Frigga sighed and shook his head.

“I wish it would all look differently,” she confessed. 

“You've probably saved me from All-father's wrath,” he said in a rush of honesty. “He would probably have me killed for attempted theft and trespassing. Then my father would go to war, and--”

He discovered that his voice failed him suddenly. Hel moved closer to him, put his hand in his, though she never looked from her book.

“Don't,” Frigga said softly. “Don't concern yourself with may-have-beens. You are here, but you're alive and your father has the Casket back.”

“Yes,” he said, relieved to hear that his voice sounded normally again. “Yes, you are right, of course, my lady. Thank you.”

There was a woman walking towards them, tall, with a thick braid of the color of wheat laying over her shoulder. She wore a long dress, a sparkling necklace over it, but she moved like a warrior. A cat was trailing just behind her, a big tabby tomcat. It looked like it could take on Fenrir in a fight and come out alive, a feat in itself.

“What do you feed cats in Asgard?” he asked Frigga, smiling a little. She shrugged with an amused expression.

“This one? Small children, I guess. Have you met Freyja?” 

“Not yet.”

Introductions were exchanged, Loki kissed the Vanir goddess' hand and received a stunning smile in return. She was shining, sparkling in the sunlight, radiating power. He realized belatedly that he must have been sensing her magic, at once similar and different from his own, a thing of the sun and fire.

“I was looking forward to seeing you,” Freyja told him, sitting next to Hel. She seemed unaffected by her appearance. Loki had a feeling they would get along just fine. Her cat decided to forgo their company after one disdainful glance and disappeared in the bushes without a sound. “All of you,” she amended. Loki felt a smile tugging at his lips.

“The sentiment is reciprocated. After all, I believe we have something in common.”

“Yes,” she smiled at him. He was a bit off-balance at how friendly they were. Most of the Aesir spoke to him only when absolutely necessary, and were usually cold and hostile. He usually paid them in kind. Maybe the reason was connected not only to him being a Jotunn, but also to his magic, which those fools considered to be a woman's skill. As if there was much difference or there was any shame in that. “I think we can learn a little from each other, can't we? Let me see.”

He showed her a passage in the book on magic that was giving him some trouble. Soon they were deep in discussion. Freyja was quick of mind, outspoken and loud, and he discovered that he liked her at once. She explained the problem to him and asked in turn about some aspect of Jotunn magic she was curious about. He wasn't used to explaining his secrets, little spells he had found in forgotten tomes or tricked out of sorcerers who hated him and wanted him. However, it seemed only fair and she was a gracious listener, asked intelligent questions and never pried when he refused to reveal something to her.

Before he left, they extracted a promise from him that he would come back tomorrow. He realized he was even looking forward to it.

*

It took Odinson three days to realize who he was. 

Granted, Loki tended to avoid him, kept to dimly-lit rooms and generally tried to avoid drawing attention to himself. Hel was still reluctant to leave their chambers when there was a lot of people around, but he needed to visit the library and the dining room, and the Aesir disguise meant much less trouble for him. Most people apparently assumed he was someone who had been living there, but they didn't know or remember him, and never connected him to the Jotunn hostage. Besides, not many of them had seen his true form, either. 

He was going back to his chambers, his arms full of books, when somebody bumped into him, nearly tripping him. However, before Loki could apologize and hurry on his way, he grabbed his arm so strongly it hurt. Loki wasn't even surprised when he looked up and saw familiar broad shoulders and golden hair.

“You,” Odinson growled.

“Me,” Loki confirmed. “I think congratulations are in order.”

“What is this trickery?”

Loki managed to shook his hands off him, started to collect his books, which spilled on the floor. Odinson's face acquired a truly amusing shade of red. There was a sharp smell around him, like the air just before a storm. 

“A precaution,” Loki explained, straightening and shifting books in his arms. “Can I go now? I have no wish to stand around talking to you. You might be contagious.”

“Are you planning something?” Odinson demanded. Loki rolled his eyes.

“Consider this: if I was, would I tell you?”

Odinson's big hand was on his wrist again, painfully strong. Loki kept a grimace off his face.

“Of course I'm planning something. For now, a quiet evening of reading with my children. Which you're interrupting. Right now.”

That actually made Odinson loosen his fingers and step back, his expression somewhat sheepish. 

“Is that you watching me?” Loki sneered. “Because it doesn't seem to be very effective. Your lady friend may be angry with you for doing a sloppy job, but it wouldn't be a first time, would it?”

“I don't trust you,” Odinson said, matter-of-factly. “I would know your intention.”

“As I said, I intent to avoid dying of boredom. Besides that, my options are somewhat limited.” Loki couldn't keep an edge of bitterness out of his voice. “Can I go now? My daughter would be worried. You're scaring her anyway.”

“I didn't mean--” Odinson began, but Loki didn't listen, brushed him aside and went on his way. He didn't look back, and Odinson didn't follow.

*

Loki spent the next few days mainly in the library, leafing through spellbooks and talking quietly with Freyja, who seemed very enthusiastic about having a new conversation partner on all things magical. He would have liked her for that alone, but she also kept him and Hel supplied with sweets, biscuits and fruit. Hel would eat one or two, too engrossed in her history books to pay much attention to it, but Loki to his endless embarrassment discovered that he had an enormous sweet tooth and could eat through an entire plate within minutes, without noticing. When Freyja saw it for the first time, she started laughing uncontrollably and couldn't stop until the librarians became very cold and courteous and asked her to leave. 

His shapeshifting spell allowed him to escape most of the attention. Apparently nobody was exactly interested in what the Jotunn was doing with his free time, and they pointedly ignored his daughter, who followed him around, but mostly preferred reading in a quiet corner of the library. Fenrir and Jormungandr ran in Frigga's gardens, keeping usually out of sight. The whole matter of hostages quietened very quickly, Loki thought. Maybe the locals were used to this method of solving armed conflicts. 

The worst thing was, he had very few possibilities of keeping in touch with his family back in Jotunheim. He suspected that every letter he sent would be read, so he kept them laconic and carefully worded. Answers were slow in coming. Homesickness became overwhelming the moment he allowed himself to think about them too much, so he tried to keep himself otherwise occupied. He learned Vanir magic from books and Freyja words, taught her some of what he knew, ways of ice and stone. When he managed to call up tongues of hot green fire for the first time everything seemed to shift into its rightful place a little, as if he reclaimed a part of himself he never knew was lost. He was always more interested in creation, either of flesh or illusions, than in more esoteric aspects of magic. Lady Frigga could keep her foresight, he supposed, though he had never voiced the thought aloud.

After their little talk in the corridor Odinson had taken to avoiding him, which suited him just fine. His little lie about Hel being afraid must have worked. He was glad he judged the fool correctly for somebody who would be horrified about children being afraid of him. The truth was, Hel disliked the Aesir in general, and while Odinson had a special place in her heart as somebody who had beaten Loki, she never seemed to show a lot of fear. 

“Why would you steal the whole tray of biscuits from the kitchen?” Loki looked up from the book he was reading and met half-disapproving gaze of the Aesir queen. He and Freyja were sitting at a table tucked into a remote corner of the library, enjoying a good book or twenty and steadily eating through the kitchen's entire stock of biscuits. Frigga went over silently to their table and stood just behind Freyja, who suddenly started radiating innocence.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said.

“You could have asked,” Frigga said, fond but exasperated a bit. Freyja turned to her, smiling radiantly.

“And where's fun in that?”

“I don't know, but they are blaming Volstagg. Again.”

“As usual. Nothing new. He has probably stolen something anyway, if not today then he would have done so tomorrow. Would you like one?” She presented the half-full plate of still-warm biscuits to Frigga, who took one anyway with a sigh.

“You could have hidden it better at least,” she said without much hope. “But I'm not here for sweets. I've just happened to come across the messengers, and I think you would like to see these.”

She handed a thin stack of letters to Loki. The seals were broken, but he knew them like the back of his own hand, blue wax and a simple shape pressed with the edge of a claw. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Thank you, Lady Frigga,” he whispered.

“They have read them,” she said, shrugging hopelessly. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. I have expected that. I didn't expect to receive any letters at all.”

“We are not as cruel as you think us to be.”

His hands shook. Suddenly he couldn't bear their compassion. 

“Shall we go to my gardens?” Frigga said lightly after a moment. “The day is too fair to spend it among books. I think we all could use a bit of fresh air.”

“Yes,” Freyja gathered her skirts and stood. Hel touched Loki's hand.

“We should go, too,” she said quietly.

He had little intention to go, but he supposed he could read his letters there as well as anywhere. Hel gathered her book, which was nearly as big as she was, and trailed after the ladies. He realized he was gripping the letters hard enough to tear holes in the parchment. Loosening his fingers was harder than he thought.

The sight of his father's sharp, angular handwriting was a relief greater than he had expected. For a moment he couldn't even concentrate on words, sunlight suddenly overwhelming, and even though he sat on his favorite bench in Frigga's gardens he felt like he was falling into the abyss. Laufey rarely wrote, if ever, and his sentences were sparse and to the point. The letter was longer than Loki had expected and shorter than he had hoped. Laufey must have realized that whatever he sent would be read, and wrote nearly nothing of importance, but to Loki, everything he shared meant the world to him.

His brothers' letters were rather awkward, if heartfelt. Loki hoped that one day Helblindi would learn to hide his feelings better, after all he was to be King in the future, preferably a millennium or ten from now. Loki's eyes stung. He would trade all the gardens in the nine realms, all the summer sun and blooming trees, for being able to return. Hel climbed onto his lap, put her head on his shoulder, hugged him tightly. 

“It will get better,” he told her, vaguely surprised at how broken his voice sounded.

They sat in silence for a while. The letters seemed heavy in his hands. Loki blamed his distraction later. He never heard the footsteps, even though they usually echoed far and wide, and Odinson seemed physically unable to be quiet. He realized his presence only when the fool stood in front of him, looking rather at a loss of words.

*

Thor had never meant to disturb the Jotunn. In fact, he went into his mother's gardens on a completely unrelated business, namely to be scolded. His father had asked him to train a couple of young warriors, which happened from time to time and which Thor hated with a passion. At first he had tried to pass the task to Sif, but his mother learned of it somehow and summoned him to convey her disappointment in person. He was less than thrilled at the prospect, which was saying it mildly.

He had no idea why his mother had taken Laufeyson under her wing, but again, most of what she did seemed baffling at first, but made perfect sense in hindsight. The Jotunn kept his real face for a change, all blue skin, finely curved horns, lines crossing his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing Asgardian clothing, a dark green tunic and trousers. His daughter was curled his lap, her head hidden in his shoulder. Thor felt a stab of guilt. Of course he found the girl unnerving, after all nearly everyone did. Her childish face split into two, one half healthy and pretty, the other nearly dead, made him every time he saw her, but she was still a girl child, too thin and small, and that she thought him scary was a nasty shock to him.

What caught his attention this time, however, was Laufeyson's face. His eyes were glazed and huge, and he clutched several letters in trembling hands. Thor never had any reputation as a thinker, but it wasn't a huge logical leap to guess what the letters contained. Maybe he still felt guilty about beating the Jotunn, or maybe about frightening the child. Or maybe, as his mother was fond of saying, something got through this thick skull of his.

“Are you all right?” He asked automatically. Laufeyson's daughter lifted her head and glanced at him incredulously. Laufeyson's expression after a second mirrored hers.

“Excuse me?”

“Bad news from home?” Thor felt a blush creeping down his cheeks and cursed himself thrice for even bothering to ask.

Laufeyson's expression shifted, to guarded and suspicious. His daughter, conversely, started watching him as if he was some rare kind of insect she felt inclined to study. Thor suppressed an urge to squirm under their scrutiny.

“I believe that's exactly none of your business,” there was some emotion in Laufeyson's voice that Thor couldn't identify. 

Thor shrugged.

“Aye, maybe you're right,” he said neutrally. He didn't care much for starting a fight. Frigga would never let him hear the end of it if he did. “I'll leave you to it then.”

He turned to go to his mother and her ladies on the other side of the fountain, when he heard a quiet voice behind him.

“Everything's fine,” Laufeyson said. “ Jotunheim is full of new ice and new voices. Maybe you should start worrying.”

Thor gritted his teeth and stopped first three insults which came to his mind.

“I doubt your father would risk your safety,” he said at last, glancing over his shoulder. There was a nasty smile on the Jotunn's lips, but it died after a second. He narrowed his eyes at Thor.

“It's a wonder that you don't call for war anymore. Maybe there's a drop of intellect left floating in this vast empty space between your ears.”

“As long as your father keeps his peace.” Thor decided to ignore the insult. “My mother is calling me. If you will excuse me...”

“What did you do this time to be called here and scolded like a child?” Laufeyson regained his composure, his sneer was back in place.

“I believe that's exactly none of your business,” Thor told him cheerfully, turned his back and walked away.

“Simple minds, simple pleasures,” he heard Laufeyson murmur behind him. Thor snorted, not bothering to answer.

Next time when Thor saw Laufeyson was when he wandered into the library. With the end of summer came the storms, which chased even the most stubborn of warriors under the roof as the sparring rings started resembling mud pits. Thor was looking for a book on strategy his father mentioned on occasion as something he should read, and he was prepared to do almost anything to relieve boredom for a while.

Laufeyson was sitting at a table in the corner, stacks of books three feet high scattered around him. He was wearing his Aesir disguise, a lie which was as outrageous as it was beautiful. Thor wished he could stop having thoughts like these, but then again, it was little more than aesthetic appreciation. There was a bowl before the Jotunn, full of honey biscuits. Laufeyson was absentmindedly munching on them at a truly frightening pace. Thor couldn't see his daughter anywhere for a change, although the two of them had seemed inseparable before.

“I wouldn't suspect you of having such a sweet tooth,” he said when he started browsing the shelves nearby. The Asgardian librarians were very bad at keeping order. 

“I wouldn't suspect you of having enough brain to form a coherent thought,” Laufeyson remarked pleasantly and bit through another biscuit. He somehow managed to keep crumbs off the book he was reading, something thick, very old and full of drawings Thor felt better not looking closely at.

“You should find a new form of insults, I suppose,” Thor took out a book which seemed promising, but it nearly crumbled in his fingers and he put it back hastily. “I think I have heard enough about my intellect to last me a lifetime.”

“These would be dull only if they weren't true,” Laufeyson murmured. Another two biscuits disappeared. 

“You devour these sweets like a young maiden mooning over a lover,” Thor said, hiding a smile. He expected indignity or anger, but Laufeyson only chuckled.

“Do I? Watch me.”

Suddenly he was next to Thor and there was a smell of magic in the air, strong and musky. His face rippled and changed, sharp lines softening. Full lips curved into a smile, impossibly green eyes looked into Thor's with a challenge. Thor couldn't help glancing down. Laufeyson made a rather fine maiden, truly.

“Am I not beautiful?” the Jotunn purred. Thor gritted his teeth. He should have known better than insult the sorcerer, he would always come out worse in the end. 

“Pleasing to the eye, certainly,” he said, glad that his voice came out more or less steady. “But if this face is the prettiest you can make, rumors about your abilities seem exaggerated.” 

He noticed his book on the shelf just behind Laufeyson's head, managed to retrieve it with one quick move. The Jotunn smelled strange, sharply of magic, sweetly of honey and cinnamon. His smile, though wicked, lacked the edge of bitterness which had marred it before. Thor wondered what he had missed during his stay in Asgard, which had lasted now for over a month.

“I wouldn't trust your opinion on anything other than the quality of mead,” Laufeyson smirked. His female face seemed somehow exaggerated, unreal, strange lips wearing familiar expression. It was unsettling, to say the least. You were supposed to have only one face, one nature, not flow from one to the other as though you had none on your own, though Thor supposed it would be very different for one of the Jotnar.

“You were the one to ask for my opinion.” Thor wanted to back away and leave, but it felt like he was pinned into place by this poisonous green glare. 

“It's sometimes enjoyable to hear meaningless sounds. Birds singing, you talking.”

Thor sighed.

“Aren't you trying a little bit too hard?”

Laufeyson assumed a bored expression at once, shifted to his previous form in a second, black locks shortening, soft curves sharpening into angular lines. He went back to his table, sat down again and ate another biscuit.

“Good day,” Thor murmured and left, clutching the forgotten book in his hands.

*

Odinson kept stumbling into him during the following days, walking on him in the library to return a book on warfare, getting summoned to be talked at by Frigga again, accidentally sitting at his favorite spot near the window in the dining hall. Loki found it annoying at first, but then the big oaf seemed docile and almost pleasant when he wasn't trying to kill him. He supposed he simply got used to his presence, especially when Odinson didn't try to engage him in small talk. It happened from time to time, but usually gave up after Loki sent a few insults his way. His friends never bothered Loki, so he put them all out of his mind after a few days. 

There wasn't much to do in Asgard when one wasn't allowed to venture out of the palace. Loki supposed he could sneak out and return unnoticed, but he decided to postpone such adventures until everyone got used to him being there. Odin came to talk to him once, polite and neutral, without mentioning any touchy subjects, but the whole conversation left Loki shaking for hours afterward. When he was a child, he thought Odin to be a fool and a weakling, a man who lost an eye to Loki's mighty father and managed to win the war by luck, trickery or difference in numbers. He knew better now, by observing and listening. He had no wish of crossing paths with the All-father again if he could help it. 

“Why are you here?” he asked one day from behind his book. Hel was a lukewarm weight against his knees, where she said on the ground with her back to his legs. He was sitting on his bench under the tree. The sun wasn't bothering him so much anymore, though he still preferred the shadow. 

Odinson shrugged, sitting down next to him without an invitation. He motioned silently to the group of women centered around Frigga and Freyja, who were talking about something animatedly. 

“You will have to go to them sooner or later,” Loki told him in a bored tone. 

“Later would be preferable,” Odinson mumbled. Loki didn't keep track of trouble he tended to cause willingly or by accident, but the fact of life was that the fool tended to be reprimanded by his mother at least once a week. 

“Suit yourself.”

Odinson fell thankfully silent. His crimson cloak pooled around him and on the bench like a sea of blood. Hel tugged at it curiously, feeling the fabric between her fingers. He squirmed by an inch, but kept still. 

“Why don't you sit with them? They seem to be quite taken with you,” Odinson said after several minutes. 

“Why don't you get your scolding done and go away?”

Odinson started to answer, abruptly stopped speaking and went very still. Loki heard slither of scales on the stone, then saw Jormungandr coiling around the leg of the bench. He extended his arm and let the serpent climb up, wounding around his shoulders. He felt a touch of warm, dry tongue on his cheek. Jormungandr's eyes were fixed on Odinson.

_This one smells like fear_ , Loki heard his mildly amused voice in his head.

Odinson's eyes were huge and he was trembling a little.

“Are you afraid of snakes?”

“No, I'm not,” Odinson said bravely, his voice a little higher than usual.

“You are the worst liar in the world,” Loki told him. Jormungandr tightened his coils around him. He was growing by the day, and his warm, heavy body barely fit on Loki's narrow shoulders anymore. There was a hint of amusement in his hiss, though probably only Loki heard it. Odinson paled.

“I would not have you accuse me of deceit,” he stammered without any credibility whatsoever. Loki heard Jormungandr chuckle and then serpent uncoiled himself from his shoulders, slithering towards Odinson. The big warrior got up so quickly that he nearly tripped over the hem of his cape.

“I think my mother is calling me,” he lied and fled, losing any semblance of dignity he had left. Loki trailed after him with his eyes and started laughing. Even Hel looked up from her book and gave her brother a small smile. Jormungandr just looked smug.

_I think I like this one_ , he announced, touching his tongue to Loki's palm. _Very funny when he runs._

“My son, Father is very proud of you today,” Loki told him solemnly. 

*

Loki wasn't sure how exactly he had ended up in the sparring ring again. 

To Odinson's credit, he didn't even try to challenge him again. Loki was minding his own business and just happened to cross the courtyard. The storm was coming, the sky gray and heavy over their hands, the air hot and smelling sharply. The wind was tearing at his clothes, his hair. Odinson was alone, wonder of wonders, abusing an unfortunate training dummy with his wooden hammer, which was bigger than Loki's head. If Loki hadn't stopped and quipped something at him, he could have perished from repressed feelings or something.

“I would see your magic do better,” Odinson grumbled in response.

“Don't ask for something you would regret later,” Loki curled a tiny tongue of green fire around his fingers. He was restless, his day had been boring until now. The book he had wanted to read got lost somehow among endless shelves and tables, Freyja left early on to oversee training of her einherjar, and even Hel was reluctant to leave their room. She disliked stormy weather too much.

Odinson stepped away from the dummy, threw his hammer in the air and caught it easily with his other hand. Loki had to admire the way he moved, because for all his brute strength Odinson never lacked in grace. He would have never thought of someone as big and broad to move so quickly. His brothers and father were even bigger, granted, but their grace was of a completely different kind, the fluidity of ice melting from one form into another. Odinson was like a force of nature, unstoppable, ever sure of himself, aware even too much of his own place in the universe.

“I am certain that I can handle it,” Odinson smiled at him radiantly. Loki repressed an urge to sneer at him. Or smile back – he wasn't actually sure which one was worse. 

“It's on your head, then.”

Loki felt a knife form under his fingers, cold and green. It flew from his fingers and before it could have speared the dummy in place where its heart would be, four others hit it. The rush of magic through his head, through his hands was exhilarating. He sent a tongue of green fire after them, it nearly burned him, inexperienced as he was with this kind of magic. The dummy fell over slowly. Loki let a breath out and glanced at Odinson, who was looking at him with a strange mix of distaste and respect.

“Had you used these magics when we fought, it would have gone on for much longer,” he told Loki and it sounded surprisingly like praise.

“Really?” Loki raised his eyebrows. “I would say it would have gone very quickly, with your face in the mud as a result.”

Odinson threw him a long piece of wood. It was shaped like a short spear and balanced like the ones Loki was used to carrying. This time Odinson waited for him inside the sparring ring instead of rushing headlong into fight. These last months must have taught him basic courtesy, Loki surmised. He knew he should have laughed and walked away, spare himself the effort and possible humiliation. For all his bragging he was far from sure that he could take on Odinson and win even with his magic.

Odinson's smile was unbearable. Loki spun the training spear in his hand, threw caution to the wind and stepped into the sparring circle. If Hel had been there, she would have never let him hear the end of it.

They traded a few blows, Loki evading the Odinson's with some difficulty. They lacked the edge of fury the ones from the previous fight had, though. This time Odinson didn't spar like he was fighting to death and Loki found it to be a welcome development. He created a knife and tried to throw it under Odinson's defense, but he parried it in the last second. Loki smirked slightly, even though in retaliation the big warrior dealt him a blow he had to parry with his weapon and nearly knocked it out of his hands.

There was a growl of thunder in the distance. The wind strengthened. It began to rain within seconds, a violent downpour which left them drenched in a space between one breath and the other, their feet suddenly unsteady in the mud. Loki called out a bit of magic and there was two of him, perfect copies with dark hair plastered to their pale cheeks and clothing clinging to wiry bodies, spinning their mock spears and laughing at Odinson. He seemed confused for a split second before he let out a roar and swung wildly at the doppelganger. Illusion dissipated within seconds, but in the meantime Loki managed to get a blow across Odinson's back.

It quickly went downhill from there.

He froze the mud around them, but Odinson apparently expected something like that and kept his footing anyway. He grabbed Loki and threw him to the ground, then had to roll away quickly when Loki almost hit him with a fistful of flame, which set his clothing on fire and singed his hair. Loki was hit twice, in a head and shoulder, but drew few drops of blood and tore Odinson's shirt with one of his knives. He made other illusions, fire-breathing dragons, forgotten beasts dwelling in Jotunheim's taiga, surrounded Odinson with dozen of copies of himself, which distracted him for a moment, but he always went after the real Loki in the end. It was raining violently around them, lightning strikes crossed the nearly-black sky, thunder and blood roaring in Loki's ears.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he stumbled and fell for the last time, and realized he had completely no energy left to get up and continue fighting. There was mud in his mouth, in his hair, his clothing was drenched, heavy and cold on his skin. He was vaguely surprised when he noticed Odinson falling down just next to him, digging dirty fingernails into the mud. His blond hair was strewn around his head like a corona of light, dirty now and full of earth.

“Thor,” Loki rasped. His lip was bleeding, he had a bruise of the size of an apple on his shoulder, and his breathing hurt so much he was pretty certain at least one of his ribs was broken. Odinson had a black eye, a dark stain of frostbite on his fingers, and was bleeding from several shallow cuts on his shoulders and torso.

“Aye?”

“I think I hate you,” Loki told him, heartfelt.

“Do not worry,” Thor said, rolling onto his back and staring up into the sky, into the rain. “I think the sentiment is reciprocated.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Don't say it,” Loki said in the morning. He stared up, at the ceiling of his chamber. “Don't even think it. I can hear you thinking it.”

Hel just looked at him blankly. She had used up her whole reservoir of scolding – in her case, furious whispering and a lot of loaded silences – last night, when he had managed to get into their rooms propped on Thor's shoulder. He had no idea how the big Asgardian reached his own bed and felt vaguely guilty for not helping him. He attributed the feeling to the blow to the head.

“What.” She never bothered to make it into a question.

“You're dying to tell me 'I told you so', aren't you.”

“No,” she said, matter-of-factly. She was curled safely into Fenrir, the wolf fast asleep, Jormungandr coiled around her legs. Fenrir nearly jumped Thor last night, but Loki managed to calm him down in the last second. “I would like to know why you thought it was a good idea.”

“I don't know.” Loki suppressed a moan. His fingers were pressed to his forehead and covered in ice. “It sort of... happened.”

“Of all the damn stupid, irresponsible...”

“Language, young lady.”

She gave him a look absolutely devoid of any respect. “I am not leaving you alone again,” she told him in a voice which left no room for any argument. “You cannot be trusted to behave like an adult, Father.”

Loki let his head fall back on the pillow. Ice was melting on his face, drops of water trickling down his forehead. Everything hurt too much to complain, or even protest against his daughter's accusations. He felt a spark of satisfaction somewhere deep inside, though. Something changed, probably even for the better, though why it had to involve mud, bruises and splitting headache was beyond him.

*

“Care to tell me why you look like you have fought an ice giant?”

Thor lifted his head with an effort and looked at Sif through blurred eyes. She was leaning against the door frame in his room, her arms crossed over her chest. He was hazy on the details how exactly he got to his room and his bed last night, after he had managed to half-carry Loki to his own chambers. 

“Because I have,” he said, closing his eyes again. 

She processed this information for a while. “How much worse is he?”

“Better than me, actually. I don't think I can get up.”

She rubbed her forehead, sighing. “Do I even want to know?”

“It was a friendly sparring,” he said defensively. 

“Of course it was, Thor. Of course it was.”

She crossed the floor, judging from the sound of her footsteps, unceremoniously lifted the covers, checked his chest and arms, run her hands over his ribs, apparently looking for other wounds and fractures. He would adamantly claim that he never yelped like a little girl.

“Nothing's broken, I think,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Can you even be trusted to be left alone for ten minutes? If you tell me you are a responsible adult, I'm going to start laughing,” she warned after a moment. 

“Please don't,” he asked, sitting up with a groan. Strangely, he wasn't angry. He could admit that the whole idea of fighting the sorcerer wasn't probably the best one he had ever made, but it was a challenge, a calculated risk. Well, more or less calculated. He recalled how Loki looked like, drenched to the bone, with green fire dancing between his fingers, sleek and graceful in the rain.

“When you are done daydreaming, we have work to do today,” Sif snapped and he went back to reality. Moving was easier once he got going. He thought about training he had to do, about inspection on the recently forged weapons, and momentarily felt worse. He hated the Jotunn indeed very much.

*

Loki was rather reluctant to go visit Frigga in his sorry state. Besides, climbing all the way to Fensalir seemed way too much effort, even though he had managed to heal most of the damage. Hel pointedly followed him wherever he went, casting disapproving glances every time he turned his head. At last he ended up in the library behind his ever-growing stack of books, trudging through an ancient philosophical treatise. Neat rows of runes were swimming before his eyes and it often took him one or three tries to finally grasp the meaning of a paragraph. 

He wasn't even surprised when lifted his head and saw Thor standing, red-cheeked, avoiding his eyes. Under Hel's piercing stare he was almost squirming. Loki rubbed his temples and motioned to an empty chair.

“Stop hovering. Sit down.”

Thor's face was looking worse for wear than his had been. His black eye had bloomed into its peak palette of colors, his split lip was red and swollen, and he moved with visible difficulty. His golden hair was hanging limply around the pale face. Loki tried very hard not to feel even the faintest stab of guilt at the sight. After all, the golden fool had started the fight, or at least had challenged him. 

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Thor said after a moment.

Loki rolled his eyes. “Please,” he snorted. “I'm not the one who looks like something a cat dragged home.”

“Well, forgive me for my concern.” Thor looked indignant. “I have had enough reason to believe otherwise. After all, I had to help you walk yesterday, if I recall correctly.”

Loki looked away. He wished he could forget this exact part of the night. At least Thor had seemed to have a lot of experience helping people to their rooms, and his arm supporting Loki's shoulders was comfortably warm. In fact, his whole body had radiated heat, not unpleasantly.

“Well, you have my gratitude for not letting me keel over and die. My daughter would have been inconsolable.”

The daughter in question snorted derisively and gave them both a look which seemed to say that she was the only adult being in the room. She got up, demonstratively, gathered her book and went over to a table on the other side of the room. Loki was positive that she was keeping an eye on them and possibly eavesdropping. 

“You fought well,” Thor said after a moment. He smiled, bloody lip and all.

“Well, you weren't so bad, for an Asgardian,” Loki allowed. 

There was a drop of red trailing down Thor's chin. Loki felt something strange in his chest, which he refused to investigate. He tsked.

“Don't you know anything about healing here?”

Thor frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Allow me,” Loki smirked. Thor shrugged and nodded after a moment. Loki reached out, calling on a bit of his magic. He would have never called himself a healer, but he knew perfectly well how to patch someone up after a fight, how to mend simple bone fractures and knit flesh together. Thor hissed when he felt the cold touch of seidr on his skin, ghosting along Loki's fingers. Loki moved his fingers over his skin slowly, closing the small wound, cleaning away the blood. Thor's eyelids fluttered closed for a split second and Loki managed to draw away. The warrior touched his lip curiously and raised his eyebrows when his fingers came away clean.

“That's,” he struggled for words for a moment, “thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Loki was glad that his voice came out normal, even bland.

He heard a loud groan behind him and turned to see Hel banging her head gently on the table.

*

Loki woke up next morning feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. He debated advantages and disadvantages of getting into trouble. The worst part would be disappointing glares from Hel again, but she was angry with him anyway. There was also the matter of All-father, but Loki didn't plan on getting caught, so that was out of the question. He knew the spells to confuse and escape Heimdall's sight, and concealing himself was easy as a breath. The sentries at the palace gates should be easy to fool. After all Loki could fool all of his father's guards when he could still walk upright under the table.

His children were still sleeping, curled around one another, when he left silently. He felt guilty, of course, but it was far from the first time he left without telling anyone. Loki had never believed in letting trouble find him, even if it could cost him his head if he got caught.

He wore his Aesir face habitually now, letting it go only in his chambers or in Frigga's gardens. The queen and Freyja seemed somehow sad about the whole thing, but he was simply being practical. Wearing his horns and jewels in the halls of Asgard invited too much unwanted attention, too many hostile stares. After all, he knew what he was for himself, and to Niflheim with what the others thought or saw. This morning he also conjured a glamor a set of simple servant's robes, an illusion of a package to carry to the town, he altered his voice and walked slowly with his head cast down, and nobody looked at him twice.

There was one time when he dared to venture into Asgard in the past. He got only the briefest of looks around, and when he got back to Jotunheim he got the worst scolding of his life from his father. It was also one of the few times he had seen Laufey truly frightened and not bothering to hide it. The city looked about the same as he remembered, winding, crooked streets, tall buildings stretching into the morning sky. Everything seemed to slope upward or downward, for the city was built into the mountainside, where the palaces were at the very top. His footsteps were almost silent upon the cobblestones. Local workers and merchants had yet to wake up and the streets were almost deserted, which was more than fine by him. He breathed huge gulps of sharp, cold air and felt a little bit better. He left the main alley leading down the mountain toward Bifrost and went into the city itself, into the labyrinth of narrow streets that curved and tangled upon themselves. There was neither aim nor direction to his journey, he simply walked, looked into empty windows, read the signs proclaiming stores, taverns, or workshops. Sometimes he passed a local, but nobody paid him any attention. Loki was very careful to look average and nondescript.

He came upon a small square, almost empty, with a dead fountain in the middle. A tree was growing next to it, its thick roots digging through cobblestones. Loki sat on the edge, running his fingers on smooth stones. He watched the city waking up, people going around on their business. Sky above him was pearly gray and high, the wind cold, not biting like in Jotunheim, but it still reminded him of home. He tossed a coin to a beggar, watched a merchant argue prices with a manufacturer, a woman sending her children to their apprenticeships. It was so different from where he grew up, and yet somehow familiar, life going its course. He felt like a ghost among these people, clad in a torrent of enchantments to hide his real face, to hide his presence from Heimdall's gaze, but he could pretend to himself well enough to be at peace for a few minutes.

Soon he grew tired of cold stone and tree leaves rustling over his head. A tavern had opened its doors a few moments before and he decided to go inside, drink a cup of wine, listen to people talk. He was curious about what they thought about the nobility, about the All-father. Or maybe they didn't think about them at all, their business of little importance to their everyday. They would certainly care very little about a stray Jotunn hostage who acted a guarantee of his father's good behavior.

The inside of the tavern was dim and cramped, but the tables were clean, and the floor covered in fresh reeds. He sat on the bench in the corner, paid the serving girl a little too much and got a cup of thick, aromatic red wine for his trouble. Wine usually suited his tastes better than mead or ale, even though he preferred white. He sipped slowly. The tavern was almost empty, save for a few travelers and locals, who complained loudly about rising taxes, rising prices and bad weather. Nothing of importance, but Loki felt himself calming under their steady chatter. 

When somebody new came into the tavern, he didn't pay him any attention at first. Then he heard something, smelled something like snow and winter, and not just any winter. The stranger was tall, thin and wiry, sickly pale. Loki's throat was suddenly dry. Surely none of them would be foolish enough, surely none of them would find a way? He saw the newcomer say a few words to the bartender, drop a few coins on the counter and take a tall glass of water. He crossed the floor and sat in the opposite chair from Loki, smiling a familiar smile on a stranger's face. Loki felt his blood turn to ice.

“What in the nine realms are doing here?” he hissed.

Helblindi smiled even wider. “I knew you could leave the palace. Nobody could have kept you there against your will. I kept telling Father we need to be here, watch out for you and help you, but he didn't understand, so I went here alone and waited for you.”

Loki suddenly understood Hel very well. He felt like banging his forehead on the table until his fool of a brother disappeared. “Don't you have a single thought in this huge skull of yours? Father's right, you should have kept to Jotunheim and mind your own business!”

Helblindi frowned. His eyes were very bright and gray, almost silver, under bushy eyebrows.  
“If they find you, they will kill you,” Loki said desperately. “They will kill you on the spot and I will be able to do nothing to stop them. Or maybe they will throw you in a cell, you know, one just next to mine. I have seen enough of their prison to last me three lifetimes!”

“But don't you understand? I can get you home. Right now.”

Loki felt his throat clench. There was nothing he wanted more than to escape, than to run the icy plains again under the green moon and blazing fires of aurora, hear the wind howling in his ears, feel the Winter again in his bones. He knew he wanted an impossibility, dreamed a child's dream. He could have left on his own, gather his children and leave, take a risk and sneak by Odin and Heimdall, but there was retribution to fear. Loki would never put his father and his realm at such a risk, and he knew that they wouldn't be prepared for war for centuries to come.

“Brother,” he got through gritted teeth. “I love you, I love you very much, but you are a thrice-damned fool. Who gave you the spells?” As he was saying the words, he suddenly knew the answer. Only one person was powerful enough and mad enough.

“Angrboda the witch from the iron wood,” Helblindi said, oblivious to the meaning of Loki's expression altogether.

“I am going,” Loki announced when he got his voice under control again. “I am going to go and write her a very angry letter, because that's apparently all I can do. But I can promise her that one more time she messes with my family, and I will find her, I will find her and end her.”

“What do you mean, brother?” Helblindi seemed baffled.

“What I mean, dear fool, is that this witch is not to be trusted. Don't talk to her. Don't even go near her. You have neither wits nor magic to survive the price she sets for her power. You are lucky she has a soft spot for me. Otherwise your bones would be hanging from her door frame.”

“She gave me the spells to alter my shape, to hide me from the Watcher's sight,” Helblindi said, apparently having decided to ignore anything he didn't understand. “Thanks to her I could find paths between the realms and bypass the Bifrost. You can go home with me. You can get your children and be back in Jotunheim before the day ends.”

Loki downed the rest of his wine in one swig. He motioned to the serving girl and asked for another one. He certainly needed it. “I cannot leave,” he sighed after a moment. “Not yet, anyway. I don't know what the All-father would do should he find me gone. I must make sure that we can survive it, and now I'm not certain. Helblindi, dear, dear brother, please show that you have the intellect of a mouse and go back home before someone finds out you're here.”

A cold hand suddenly grabbed his, painfully strong. Loki realized he was choking back tears.

“We miss you, we all do,” Helblindi whispered. “Father hasn't been himself since you're gone. The halls are too silent. You are not somebody's to take like a war prize.”

“You must live with that somehow,” Loki said roughly. “I must live somehow without you, far from home, and it's so hard that you cannot imagine. I think of escaping home every day, every hour, don't think that I don't. It hurts so much I can't breathe. Please, brother, if you've ever loved me, go away, leave and don't go back here.”

Helblindi looked away.

“I knew you would be angry at me, but I had to go and see you. I want to see your face, brother. This disguise doesn't suit you. I hate it. I hate every minute you have to spend here.”

“You and me both,” Loki smiled without a trace of joy. “Drink your water. We shall find you a back alley where you can work your magic and go home.”

They left a few minutes later. It took Loki several minutes of searching to find a deserted street, with abandoned buildings on both sides. Helblindi was silent, his posture tense and rebellious, but went along willingly enough. 

“Please, reconsider,” he said after Loki made sure nobody could hear or see them. “We can survive whatever Odin throws at us.”

“Not a word more,” Loki warned. He closed his eyes for a moment and shifted, his natural shape almost unfamiliar. Helblindi embraced him suddenly, again blue-skinned and full of sharp angles, his claws digging into Loki's shoulders. At last he stepped back, still holding Loki at arm's length.

“You look well enough, brother,” he choked out. His eyes looked huge, wet. 

“You too,” Loki couldn't quite meet his gaze. Helblindi did look good, already taller, more muscular, radiating confidence. His skin was smooth and cold to the touch, his markings bright and pronounced. There were gold rings studded with rubies around his thick, curved horns, gold bands around his neck. Loki had to crane his neck to see his face.

“You just need to say a word,” Helblindi whispered frantically. “Just one word and we would come.”

“I know,” Loki forced himself to smile. “I know, brother. Go. Be safe. And please, do avoid witches.”

He watched his brother wind an amulet on a chain around his fingers, say an incantation and disappear with a quiet hiss of magic, when all the particles of air rushed toward the space he had occupied. The alley suddenly seemed strange, frightening. Loki pulled his cloak tighter around him and started walking slowly upward, toward the palace. His head felt heavy, his eyes hot and alien in his head, his throat clenched and hurt from all the tears he refused to spill.

It was no use to mourn what was impossible to pass. No use to pine over something done and gone forever, never to return. He needed to be smart, to lay low and survive. Thinking about home would lead him nowhere. He could only send his best wishes after his foolish brother or wish Angrboda a particularly nasty hit of rash.

He was so uninterested and apathetic when he finally got back to his chambers that even Hel had no heart to scold him.

*

Thor by complete accident had come across a plate of fresh sweet biscuits and had little idea what to do with them. Volstagg wasn't to be found anywhere, and Thor himself wasn't feeling very hungry. Anyway, Loki seemed to enjoy them much better than any of them. Thor found him tucked into the corner of the library, with a closed book in his lap. He looked like he needed a lot to drink rather than sweets. Whatever ate at him bled into his magical disguise, making pale cheeks even paler and normally piercing eyes red-rimmed and glazed. 

“What happened?” Thor was never one much for survival instinct.

“I'm reading,” Loki lied blandly. “Go away.”

Thor sat next to him on the floor, took the book from his limp hands. Loki's body radiated chill, wound tightly around itself. Thor could see patches of blue showing through thin layer of pale skin and disappearing again as the spell wavered. His daughter was reading her own book nearby, casting half-furious, half-worried glances in his direction. Thor raised his eyebrows at her in a mute inquiry, but she pointedly ignored him.

“I quite like this spot, thank you,” Thor said, almost matching Loki's voice for blandness. He put the place of biscuits on the floor and pushed it in the Jotunn's direction. “I might stay a while, if you don't mind.”

“I do,” Loki whispered, taking one biscuit and digging his fingers into it, tearing it apart piece by piece, heedless of crumbs falling onto his lap. “I think I do.”

Thor had no intention of moving anytime soon. After a few moments Loki sighed heavily, tore at his hair, reached for another biscuit and bit into it without much interest. His hands looked too long, too pale, with tendons standing out sharply and pronounced joints. 

“You should go out once in a while,” Thor said softly. Almost a week had passed since their duel and he saw little of Loki after that one incident in the library, and he still could not quite shake off the memory of cold fingers and colder magic on his mouth. He took a biscuit for himself, but tasted little of it. “My mother worries about you, I am sure. I don't see why she seeks your company, though,” he couldn't help adding. It failed to elicit any kind of response. “I know I cannot match you for wits,” he carried on, feeling a little lost himself. “I cannot help you with whatever eats at you, I cannot return you home or, I don't know...”

Loki smacked him over the head without looking. “Just stop talking, you big oaf,” he said tiredly. 

“You can fight me,” Thor smiled slightly. “Stick my face in the mud again. Or you can go with me, maybe get a drink. Just stop sitting here, wallowing in misery.”

“Go away.”

“Come on,” Thor tugged at his sleeve. Loki stiffened, drew away, while his daughter cast Thor a glance that could kill. “Say something sarcastic. Tell me I don't have a single worthwhile thought in my head. Hit me in the face.”

“Don't ask for something you would regret,” Loki didn't bother to look at him. “And I would never hit you, well, not without reason. Take your pity somewhere else, where it would be welcome.”

Thor fell silent. He watched Loki sideways, the Jotunn's body slumped against the wall. “I'm not pitying you,” he said after a while. “I tend not to pity those who managed to trample me into dust in the sparring ring. This sorrow is not becoming of you.”

“You have no right to tell me,” Loki ground out, “what is and what is not becoming of me. Leave me be, Odinson. You know nothing of sorrow and nothing about me.”

“Aye, I don't. I have no right to ask anything of you. Should you want to leave this library someday, though, I may have a cask of wine saved somewhere or be at the sparring rings. I'm still waiting for rematch with you, just so you know.”

He got up, stretched, inclined his head to both Loki and Hel, and turned to leave. There was a snort behind him and sound of floor creaking. 

“I would like this drink, if it's still all right with you,” Loki said as if he didn't quite believe that he was speaking the words. “And if my daughter can come, sit in the corner and drink grape juice.”

“I can drink wine,” Hel said sullenly. It was probably the first time she had ever spoken in Thor's presence.

“No, you cannot, daughter mine.”

She snorted, an identical sound to Loki. Thor could see his face in hers, similar jawline, pronounced cheekbones, nose sloping straight down, even though her skin was almost white, and half of it was rotten and withered, showing muscle beneath. Her only eye was red and slanted slightly upward, vaguely disapproving. Thor couldn't place her age, she seemed girlish and very old at the same time.

“I hope they save better wine for the All-father's son,” Loki said as they were walking through the corridors. “The swill they serve in the kitchens would please only simplest of tastes.”

“Is that why you drink it, Father?” Hel was following them, her small feet almost soundless upon the stone floors.

“You learn to make do, daughter,” Loki's smile didn't waver. His earlier misery had disappeared the moment he got to his feet in the library. Thor, however, felt whatever sorrow that plagued him was still present beneath thin veneer of sarcasm. 

Hel snorted and never bothered to answer.

“She has grown quite audacious of late, this daughter of mine,” Loki said to Thor. “I fear the moment she discovers joys of magic and courtship. Asgard may not survive it.”

“We shall try to endure it,” Thor said solemnly. He could not quite see how Hel would court anyone, but decided against asking. 

Thor's chambers were bright and airy. The room they sat in was spacious enough to easily fit two or three of Loki's inside. Loki curled into large soft armchair, next to Hel. Thor found them cups, took out wine for them and juice for Hel, silently thankful that these two never expected him to make small talk. 

“Well, it will do,” Loki judged after sipping a bit of his drink. The wine was light and golden-colored, casting yellow shadows on the table and his pale hands.

“I cannot imagine you growing wine in Jotunheim,” Thor smiled a bit.

“You don't have to grow it to be able to appreciate it. I would like to see you trying to drink our spirits, though.”

“I've seen it eat through a table once,” Hel added, palming through her book, something leather-bound and heavy.

“A stone table,” Loki corrected, smirking at Thor.

“I shall take your word for it,” Thor said neutrally. “We do not have such things here, in Asgard.”

“So it would seem. Oh well, this wine is not half bad,” Loki raised his cup to him. “They must save the finest swill for the royal family. Have you seen the vineyards of Vanaheim, Thor?”

“Once or twice,” Thor shrugged. “Have you?”

“Maybe,” Loki's smile turned mischievous. “My lips are sealed, though.”

Hel rolled her eyes from her seat, turned a page and frowned at something written there. She seemed to disappear in her armchair, frail and slender in her gray dress. Her hair was fine and almost white, loose on her shoulders, covering most of her face.

“Father dear, please stop inventing imagined journeys for the sake of the audience,” she said in a bored tone, sipping the juice from her cup. “He fancies himself a traveler, you know,” she addressed Thor, “and yet he would rather hunt beasts in the tundra. A man of simple pleasures, he is.

“Aren't we all, kitten,” Loki murmured. “I am sorry for whatever real or imagined transgressions I have committed to make you so furious with me.”

“I'm not furious, Father.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I just wish you would see reason. Now you're acting a fool.”

Thor had to admit, watching these two quarrel was a rather entertaining past time. 

After several minutes Hel put away her empty cup, collected her book and left without a word, shutting the door quietly behind her. Loki watched her, frowning.

“Forgive her bad manners,” he said after a while. “She has been upset with me lately. 'Tis no fault of yours.”

“I seem to recall you telling me she was been scared of me,” Thor couldn't help pointing out. Now he saw it was a lie, but it had worried him for a time nonetheless. Monster or not, he was never the one to frighten little girls. However, he couldn't believe how foolish he had been to accept Loki's words at face value. 

“Aye,” Loki's smirk turned strained. “A lie for you, Odinson. A little jest to pass the time.”

“She's not a one to be scared of a man, isn't she?” 

“Not many of us are.”

“Who's her mother? I don't think you've ever mentioned her.”

Loki stared at him incredulously for a second, then started laughing. It took him several moments to be able to stop.

“Do you believe that any godling, any woman, would bear me a wolf, a serpent and a girl child? They have a mother only in a manner of speaking, and she is a woodland witch who taught me my magics, but took no part in their creation. I brought them forth from my own blood, creations much more successful that this horse I gifted to your father.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“Well, if you need to ask, I shall not bother to answer,” Loki hissed, his smile, which had been almost friendly for the last several minutes, turning into a scowl. “It should be no business of yours.”

“I didn't mean to pry,” Thor sighed, suddenly wondering why he was trying so hard to be polite. His mother implored him to treat the Jotunn courteously, but it certainly didn't include bearing his insults quietly and serving him his own wine. Conversations with Loki reminded him of a battle, dealing blows and evading them in turn, ever ready for a knife's edge.

“I'm sure you didn't,” Loki drank his wine and let Thor refill the cup. “The like of you never do.”

“I meant no insult to you, and yet you insult me,” Thor said after a moment, trying in vain to contain a stab of anger. “If my company is so unbearable, you are free to leave.”

“And deprive myself of this fine vintage?” Loki's attempt at sarcasm seemed brittle, defensive. “If you wish me gone, I shall leave.”

“Can you be trusted not to fall on your own sword on the way to your chambers?”

Loki stared at him for several seconds in silence. “I am quite happy with my continued existence, thank you,” he gritted out finally through clenched teeth. “My grievances are not directed at you personally. Well, besides those concerning your intellect, or your looks, or your fighting prowess, as you can probably guess.”

Thor hid a smile, his anger suddenly gone. Loki apparently would rather die than utter a straightforward apology. He drank his wine in one gulp, apparently trying to match Thor's pace. 

“As for fighting prowess, I seem to recall beating you twice,” Thor pointed out, pouring the Jotunn more wine.

“Only once. The second one was a draw. I also seem to recall you face down in the mud with Lady Sif's weapon on your neck. There's no shame in being beaten by a shieldmaiden half your size.”

“Aye,” Thor was feeling lightheaded. “Considering that she has beaten you, too.”

“I was outnumbered,” Loki murmured, staring into his cup. “And surprised. Don't forget the element of surprise.”

They contemplated each other for a while. “You are drunk,” Loki said finally. Thor smiled thinly, even though he had been feeling telltale heat creeping into his cheeks for the last few minutes. Loki's face was equally reddish, his eyes shining feverishly. 

“I don't think you are in any position to tell,” Thor told him. He poured them the last of the wine. He wasn't sure how exactly they had drunk the whole bottle. It had seemed much bigger.

“Really? Watch me.” Loki climbed to his feet, then swayed dangerously and half sat, half fell into the armchair again. “Maybe not.”

Thor sighed. “I shall have to help you walk back, shan't I?” 

To be honest, he wasn't feeling so good himself, and during the last hour the room had acquired a definite tilt. Getting up didn't seem the wisest of ideas, but it was completely dark outside and he was feeling more and more drowsy. Besides, he had duties to attend in the morning. 

“Have you missed my point about you being drunk?”

“I can probably walk much better than you do. Wouldn't you daughter be worried if you didn't get to your rooms?”

“Not at all.” Loki shook his head vigorously, dark hair falling around his face, fine and soft-looking. “She'd be murderous.”

“Well, now getting you back seems a priority.”

Loki seemed somehow colder and smaller than he had been the last time when Thor had helped him walk. His arm over Thor's shoulder was thin, hard and heavy, the hair made it impossible to see his eyes, but his steps kept slowing the longer they walked. He murmured something under his breath from time to time that Thor never quite caught. The corridors apparently widened when Thor wasn't paying attention and they had a little trouble walking in a straight line, swaying from wall to wall. Thor was silently thankful that the hour was late and the palace deserted.

“I'm never getting drunk again,” Loki said some time after they had left Thor's rooms. “Especially not with you. I would also like to point out that I still hate you.”

“Aye,” Thor said, smiling slightly. He managed to save Loki from falling when the Jotunn made a misstep. “I hate you too, Laufeyson, you insufferable bastard.”

“I've been called worse,” Loki shrugged and almost fell down again. They fell silent, turned a few times, walked beneath a doorway. “You smell like honey. And cinnamon,” he said abruptly. “Quite nice. I didn't expect that, but I like it. But you're still a fool and I hate you with all my heart.”

This time it was Thor who stumbled and almost fell. A cold hand straightened him in the last moment. Suddenly he met green, glassy eyes and could read nothing at all in them. 

“Let's just... get you back,” he said when he found his tongue, vaguely surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

*

Loki had little experience in licking dishrags, and yet it felt like he had been doing exactly that for the last twelve hours.

Pale autumn sun was almost painful, even filtered through the curtains. His head pounded abominably, and a long cold bath did nothing for his skin feeling hot and itchy. Halfway through Fenrir walked into the bathroom and lay on the edge of the bath, watching him with a sort of sympathy in reddish eyes. Loki thanked all his lucky stars that the wolf was never quite inclined to howling without reason, and seeing his father embarrassingly hungover wasn't it.

“I may have done something very foolish,” Loki told him, uttering perhaps the greatest understatement of the year.

He had been drunk, yes, and still off-balance after his meeting with Helblindi, but it was no excuse for getting drunk with Thor of all people, and certainly for not telling him something like That. Loki refused to recall the exact words. No power in all the nine realms would ever force him to name this abomination of an utterance anything but That with a capital letter. Loki usually held his liquor pretty well, and was never prone to speaking foolish things while inebriated. Maybe Thor was contagious after all.

The water was pleasantly freezing when he got into the bath and lukewarm when he finally climbed out. Fenrir still watched him without a word. He could speak as well as Jormungandr could, but was usually even quieter than the serpent. Otherwise he was silent, fiercely protective and deadly. He bore captivity in Asgard surprisingly well, idling his days away in Frigga's gardens. If he missed running under cold black skies of Jotunheim, he never said so.

Loki dried himself up and found a clean tunic among the pile of clothes on the floor. Nothing elaborate, but Loki felt overdressed most of the time nonetheless. He felt little cold in hot Asgardian climate. The Aesir kept him well supplied with clothes, simple tunics and trousers sewn from soft fabrics and embroidered with simple shapes. He was very bad at keeping order and would always find a way to make a mess even when he had so few possessions. There were books and notes strewn everywhere in his bedroom and the living room, some of them wandered into the bathroom. 

Hel was waiting for him in the living room, mixing some herbs and water into his wine. Breakfast was long since stale, but it revolted Loki's stomach all the same. He took the cup from his daughter's hands, winced at the smell, downed it all in one gulp and almost spluttered. The wine was cold, thick and bitter. Loki would suspect Hel had put a raw egg in it, but preferred not to dwell on it lest it upset his stomach further.

“I am very disappointed with you,” Hel told him, voice quiet and even.

“I know. I am sorry.”

He could not quite meet her eyes. Suddenly finding Thor and getting drunk again seemed a much more favorable prospect. He spotted his last book among the pile of parchment scraps and broken quills, snatched it and went for the door.

“I need some fresh air,” he announced. “Come with me if you wish, kitten, but I beg of you, save your scolding for later, when my headache passes.”

Hel snorted with disdain, but collected her things and motioned to her brothers to follow Loki. They ended up in Frigga's garden, in their usual spot, under the tree. Loki used the thick book as a pillow and lay down, pressing his ice-covered fingers to his forehead. Reading in his state was a recipe for disaster. He wasn't even sure how to spell his own name. He tried his best to ignore his daughter's glare. 

“I hope you had fun,” he heard. Someone went over to him and hadn't even heard the footsteps. He cracked his eyes open and looked into Freyja's face. She wasn't even trying to contain amusement.

“Aye,” he rasped. “You can indeed call it 'fun'.”

Her big tomcat jumped on the bench and after a moment's deliberation lay directly on Loki's chest. For a moment he wasn't actually sure if breathing was even an option. He attempted to brush the cat aside, but to no avail. Amber eyes looked at him with feigned innocence and the cat curled himself to sleep, purring contentedly.

“He loves hungover people,” Freyja told him, gathering her skirts and sitting on the ground next to him, propping her back on the bench. “I'm told it helps, if you don't suffocate in the process.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.”

“I may have seen Thor this morning,” her smile was mischievous. Loki felt a shiver of fear. “He looked almost worse for wear than you do. Is there something I should know?”

“Aye,” he gritted his teeth and was determined to endure. “I am in pain, and miserable, and you are making it worse.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” she gave him a long look and smiled. “Or wait. I think I know anyway. Thank you for telling me.”

She sprung to her feet with a bounce, scratched her cat on the head and walked away, leaving Loki perplexed and with a worsening headache. Hel sighed and went after her, apparently having decided that Loki was no company at all. His sons disappeared soon after and he could not help feeling guiltily thankful for a moment of peace and quiet.

*

Thor was no stranger to waking up hungover. He murmured some obscenities, kept his head under freezing cold water for a few moments, drank a lot of water, summoned a smile from somewhere and went after his business. Life in Asgard didn't stop just because the All-father's son wasn't feeling up to living on a particular morning. Thor instructed a few younger warriors, talked with guards and blacksmiths, visited stables, and if everything was a little too bright and too loud he tried not to make much issue of that.

And yet every time he sat still for a moment recollection of last night's events started appearing in his head. Why in the nine realms would the Jotunn tell him something like that? It bothered Thor to no end. The obvious conclusion would be that Loki was hatching a plot of some sort. On the other hand, during all these months in Asgard his plotting seemed limited if present at all, because nothing ever came of it. Also he was so drunk he had trouble walking without assistance, and even with it couldn't keep a straight line. Thor would chalk it up to drunken ramblings, and he was prone to blurting out more foolish things if he had too much mead, but it simply did not suit Loki at all. The Jotunn was too devious, too controlled.

He could still see those eyes, that slightly crooked smile when Loki said the words. Maybe complimenting someone's smell was customary in Jotunheim, though Thor doubted that it was so. Loki's long, slender fingers had been wrapped around Thor's shoulder, surprisingly strong and cold, but not unpleasant. When his voice lacked the edge of sarcasm, it was low, smooth, slightly rasping. Thor wasn't sure if he was supposed to think such thoughts about a frost giant, but found it very hard to hate Loki. The Jotunn behaved relatively civilly, didn't seem to plot Asgard's downfall, and spent his days idling away in the gardens, reading, complaining about the heat and trying in vain to temper the edge of his daughter's caustic sarcasm. Apparently he slept in a bed, didn't eat little children, cursed when he was in pain and even laughed, though Thor had heard it only once or twice, and rather at him than with him. He worked seidr, yes, and slipped from shape to shape as if he had none of his own, but these hardly seemed crimes. 

All these considerations offered no explanation to why Loki would think that Thor smelled nice, and after all why he would tell him so. If it had been about someone else, anyone, Thor would have thought he was being courted. In such cases he tended to go along, there was no harm in that, but it wasn't anyone, it was Loki.

There was a bowl of cinnamon biscuits left in Thor's chambers and he eyed it suspiciously when he got back after he was finished with his duties. He couldn't help lifting one and smelling it. Sharply sweet aroma gave him no further ideas. He considered finding Loki and asking him, but could never bear the humiliation. Maybe the Jotunn devised the whole situation as a jest anyway, and Thor would only appear a fool. Or maybe it was spoken without thinking, and would do them both no good to bring it up. Thor felt uncomfortable with either conclusion, accustomed as he was to honesty, yet he could think of no other way out.

Avoiding Loki was no solution, however, and Thor would miss their weekly meetings in the tree's shadow. He had taken to sitting with the Jotunn for several minutes every time he came to Fensalir, they would trade a few barbs, and Thor would earn a scathing glance or three. He avoided the bench by the tree only when he saw the serpent. Snakes made him uneasy, he never knew why, but every time he looked at one of them he turned into a quivering mess. Jormungandr's intelligent eyes made it even worse, for the serpent always seemed like he was plotting the best way to scare Thor away from them.

His feet took him to Fensalir anyway. There was a bit of chilled wine left in his chambers, and he felt vaguely guilty for getting Loki drunk so badly last night. Besides, his mother had expressed a wish to see him, probably to lecture him on some obscure points of politics or history, which he made an honest effort to learn but found mind-numbingly dull nonetheless. That he wanted to see Loki rather badly he resolved not to think about.

The Jotunn was lying on his bench, half-melted ice dripping down his cheeks, drops of water crossing over sharp cheekbones. His children were nowhere to be seen, though Thor thought he had noticed a wolf's shadows under the trees in the distance. More importantly, there was no Hel who attempted to kill him with a glance, and certainly no serpent, no poisonously green scales and beady red eyes.

“Are you trying to poison me again?” Loki said weakly, accepting the half-full bottle and taking a swig. 

“It's wine, not poison,” Thor said, sitting on the ground next to him. Suddenly he felt eyes on him and caught Freyja's glance, her crooked smile. The Vanir goddess rarely shared her thoughts if it didn't benefit or amuse her, and this time he couldn't decipher her expression.

“Well, so you say.” Loki opened one red eye and stared at him. His hand rested only inches from Thor's face. “I've no reason to believe you.” He drank a little more.

“Considering that you still draw breath after we drank a lot more of my wine last night,” Thor pointed out. “I was worried about you. You weren't a pretty sight.”

“Why, thank you,” Loki sneered. “Does your flattery work on fair maidens?”

“I had no intention to insult you.” Thor had since learned that raising to the bait would earn him nothing, and every time he ignored the insults Loki seemed a little surprised, which was a victory in itself. “I was merely stating the fact.”

“I was fine. Eventually.” 

Thor watched Loki narrow his eyes in concentration, cover his fingers in new layer of ice and lie his hand on his forehead again. Long, wide sleeves of his tunic were drenched in melting water.

“'Tis good to hear.”

“I've never known you cared.”

“Your presence here is not unpleasant,” Thor allowed through gritted teeth, suddenly angry. “Forgive me for being concerned, especially that you have been my guest last night.” He huffed angrily. “I'm trying to play nice, to speak normally, I understand that you don't want to be here at all, but I'm not the cause of your misfortune and you're taking it out on me.” 

He dug his fingers into the ground, resisting an urge to hit something. Loki would always find a way to strike a nerve, even sprawled on the bench as he was, with his hair disheveled and crumpled clothing. Thor fell silent, mumbling curses under his breath. 

When Loki spoke, his words were somewhat hesitant, measured. “I am sorry you have taken seriously words spoken in jest,” he said quietly. 

Thor didn't speak, not trusting his voice not to shake in anger.

“My predicament is no personal fault of yours,” Loki took a deep breath, which Thor almost felt on his skin, and carried on. “You have been nothing but courteous for me these days, well, not taking into account this one time when you forced me into a fight and trampled into mud. Or this time when you called me a monster.” His last words were sharp, and Thor felt his anger dissipate into a stab of guilt.

“For this, I am sorry. I spoke hastily and thus did you wrong.” These words were harder than Thor had expected. “Neither you nor your family are what I expected them to be. If I can ask forgiveness, I will.”

He felt a hand high on his shoulder, near his neck. Loki's fingers burned cold even through thick fabric of his shirt. He turned his head slightly and caught sight of Loki's face, drawn in concentration.

“I bear you no ill will for words spoken in haste,” Loki said quietly. Thor wanted to fidget under his hand, or maybe draw closer. With an effort of will he managed to stay still. “We all have our faults.”

“Was it your plan all along? To get caught and return the Casket to your people?” Thor asked, something that had been bothering him for months.

“I am not a sacrifice to be made,” Loki hissed. “I simply took advantage of the situation.”

“Was it worth it?” 

Loki's fingers, which had been moving slowly toward Thor's neck and made his hair stand on end, suddenly stopped. “Don't you dare ask me that question,” Loki murmured without any real heat. His fingers were once more moving, threading slowly through fine hairs on Thor's neck, and Thor was rather certain he should object to such a treatment. He could not quite summon the energy to do so. “I have saved my realm, Odinson. I've saved it. Against my father's wishes, against my own better judgment. So don't you dare ask.”

Thor suddenly could not find any words with which to answer. He closed his eyes against summer heat, against coldness spreading on his neck following Loki's touch. Loki was lying still, one hand pressed to his own forehead and covered in ice, the other on Thor, moving slowly, almost instinctively through his hair.

“I think I need to go,” Thor said thickly, feeling heat creeping to his cheeks, his neck. The hand suddenly stilled and then drew away.

“Aye,” Loki's voice was higher than usual and if Thor hadn't known better, he would have said it was panicked. His face was flushed purple. “Go.”

Thor could not even convince himself that his retreat wasn't an attempt to escape something he didn't understand.

*

Loki could hear whispering and giggling from the direction where Frigga and her ladies in waiting were sitting. He could swear even the Valkyries were laughing at him. Icy water was dripping from his hand, evaporating on his skin, and he could swear one more moment and he would burst into flames. 

This time he didn't even have an excuse of being intoxicated. On the contrary, he was in full possession of his mental faculties, or at least had thought so, because apparently his leftover intellect had decided to take a break from the hard work. There was no excuse for petting Odinson's hair, no matter how soft or fair it looked. At first he had simply wanted to touch Thor, startle him a bit, but after that his hands apparently took a life on their own. He scrubbed his fingers on the side of the bench, but the ghost of sensation remained, touch of fine strands under his fingertips. Thor still smelled good, sharply sweet. His skin was almost scathing hot, surprisingly smooth under the fabric of his shirt, all hard muscle.

Only the truth was, Loki was a fool, he was mortified, and convinced now that Thor was contagious. Nobody in his sound mind would ever do such a thing. Casual touching never held much appeal for Loki, but what he had done seemed hardly casual. The worst thing was, he didn't even consciously decide to start brushing his fingers along Thor's skin or hair, didn't plan the whole thing to confuse the warrior or amuse himself, that would be an excuse enough. Instead he had his feelings all tangled up in a knot and could make no sense of them whatsoever. He only knew how pleasant the sensation of touching Thor felt and how disastrously bad idea it was.

At least Thor had the sense to run away. Loki had no idea why he hadn't protested or left earlier. Before Loki would have said with absolute certainty that this kind of unasked physical contact would get him a fist to the face, nothing more. And yet Thor seemed as surprised as he was, and flushed red down to his neck, stumbling over words and painfully unsure, very much unlike himself.

Loki watched Thor talking to his mother, sitting at her feet on the ground and looking very, very distracted. Frigga apparently realized after several minutes that whatever she had planned would simply not happen, and waved her son off with an annoyed expression. He almost run, caught sight of Loki and nearly stumbled on uneven ground. His face was still bright red. Freyja watched them, smiling in a way which made Loki very uncomfortable. He felt like a mouse being stalked by a very self-satisfied cat.

However, he doubted whether asking Freyja for reasons behind her amusement would help his sanity much.


	4. Chapter 4

The Aesir, as was to be expected, celebrated autumnal equinox with contests of strength and feasting, all of which were too loud, too long and generally too much for Loki's liking. There was no escaping the festivities, for everyone seemed to partake, from servants to the Valkyries. Freyja insisted on him participating, even if he was to sit only quietly in the corner during the feasts, watching the revelry. His children on no uncertain terms refused to leave their chambers at all. Only Hel left once, looked over the scene and quietly returned to sit through the evenings with the wolf and the serpent for company. Loki had no such refuge.

Thor was the center of attention, fighting gloriously and winning most of the bouts, singing slightly off-key but with great enthusiasm, drinking seas of mead. If Loki admitted such things to himself, he would say that watching Thor was the most interesting part in the festivities. He would sometimes find himself staring, thinking about him, even though their few conversations since the incident in the gardens were stilted and rather awkward. Anyway, Thor was radiantly alive, shining gold and red, framed in a corona of light. Loki would collect almost obsessively little details about him, the way he moved, the way he spoke, the exact shade of this crimson cloak he wore. 

On the last day of the festivities there was a feast in the great hall for nearly whole Odin's court, with dancers and musicians, telling of stories and legends. Air was hot and thick, full of smoke and smell of sweat, with people crowded around the tables, shouting, singing. Loki sat tucked into a corner, hands clenched protectively around his cup, with an almost full plate balanced on his knees. Now and then somebody bumped into him, almost spilling his wine, usually not stopping to apologize on his way to dancing or wherever else. From what Loki saw, he was the only person who seemed to be bothered by that.

In Jotunheim he used to enjoy the festivities well enough and could usually be persuaded to show some tricks or illusions to brighten the mood. There was also fighting, and chanting of old ballads and legends under high cold ceilings of his father's hall. It had never seemed to be so tiring, the air so stifling and revelers so obnoxious in their entertainments. Now Loki could feel his skin under his enchantment itch, the spell wavering and curves of his horns almost visible over his head.

It seemed to become more and more unbearable by the minute. Loki decided to get a breath of fresh air instead of festering there with a band of halfwits. He left his plate somewhere and started pushing through the crowd, protecting his still full cup, winding around dancers and avoiding stumbling drunkards. The corridor outside the hall was blissfully quieter and much colder, much airier. Loki wandered away a bit, humming a song under his breath, an old, sad one, in a language unheard in this realm. Finally he came upon a nook in the corridor, where behind a window lay the windy night. He sat on the windowsill, looking outside, sipping his wine, trying to forget.

Minutes passed in silence and Loki nearly fell asleep, curled with his knees under his chin, when he heard heavy footsteps down the corridor. He opened his eyes reluctantly and wasn't even much surprised when he saw familiar golden hair, red shape of his cloak. Almost instinctively he moved, straightened up, making space for him to sit on the windowsill. Thor smelled like smoke and mead, but did not look drunk, on the contrary, his eyes were bright and alert, shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. His hair was in disarray and Loki's hand itched to smooth loose strands into place.

“Tired finally of your festivities?” Loki aimed for dry tone of voice, but fell quite short of the mark. They were sitting too close and suddenly he had trouble drawing breath. There was still a bit of wine left in his cup and he handed it to Thor, who drank it all, never taking his eyes from Loki.

“They can dance and drink quite well without me,” Thor smiled slightly, putting the cup away. There was something like fear curled in Loki's stomach. “I have seen you leaving.”

“It was too hot inside,” Loki shrugged, for once not being able to concentrate enough to come up with a quip. Thor's body seemed impossibly warm next to him, his thigh not quite touching Loki's. “Too loud.”

Thor nodded and fell silent. He tilted his head back until it was resting on the windowpane, closed his eyes. Loki watched the curve of his throat, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple. He tried in vain to still his trembling hands. His thoughts seemed odd, disjointed, chasing each other in his head in circles until he could not make sense of them at all. 

“It seems odd to me that you have sought my company,” he said after a while.

“Why?”

“Well,” Loki had never expected such a straightforward question, and the one he could not answer satisfactorily, “it simply does. I'm not a good companion for revelry, I'm afraid. Not for the sort you would be interested in.”

Thor cracked an eye open and looked at him sideways. 

“And you presume to know everything about me.”

“It's not much to know,” Loki snapped, fully aware that he was being defensive again. “You are not a complicated person, Thor.”

“Aye, maybe you are right. And yet you are mistaken.”

“Am I.” 

Loki had been first to invite such physical contact and should not have been as surprised as he was when he felt warm fingers closing around his wrist, brushing along delicate skin. He turned his head and looked away, all words tangled and caught up and his throat, but then there was a hand around his chin, fingers on his jaw, and he had to meet Thor's eyes, very blue, solemn and strangely intent. There was a brush of lips on his, before Thor leaned away, searching his face for something he apparently found, because then they were kissing again. Loki realized that at one point he had tangled his hands in Thor's hair, pulling so hard that it had to hurt, and that he was kissing back, desperately, all teeth, and wasn't sure anymore who had kissed whom first. He was breathing hard when he managed to draw away after a small eternity, his head swimming.

“Wait,” he breathed. Thor's mouth was red, swollen. “You cannot mean...”

He concentrated, panicking, and shifted, his dark locks fell upon soft curve of his cheek, small, pale hands still on Thor's neck. This shape still fit him strangely like a new set of clothing, a bit chafing, but nothing he could not become accustomed to. Thor shook his head.

“Stop that,” he said, frowning. “Why would you do this? 'Tis you I want to see.”

Trying to understand Thor seemed a losing case. Why would he not want a woman, an Asgardian woman, but a Jotunn instead, was beyond Loki. Someone so straightforward and uncomplicated should not be so difficult to read. Loki let his enchantment dissipate, his fear suddenly awakened again. He could not quite raise his head, meet Thor's eyes.

“For someone so clever, you are so very foolish,” Thor sighed. The insult finally cut through the fog of Loki's panic. He smiled, wide and all teeth, and pulled the oaf close for another kiss just to shut him up before he could utter another word.

It was only luck the corridor Loki had chosen was deserted, with the other people's voices muted and quiet, somewhat unreal, as if they belonged to a world long since gone. Thor's hands were warm, his mouth impossibly, almost uncomfortably hot, and seemed to melt all the ice Loki gathered inside himself, on the surface on his skin, his curse and his inheritance, at this moment in time useless, inconsequential. He felt as if he wore a stranger's skin and was very much himself at the same time. He managed to get the folds of Thor's cloak off his shoulders, slip his hands under his shirt, suddenly very much interested in small choked sounds Thor was making when Loki brushed ice-cold fingers along the edges of his ribs. There was a drop of blood under Thor's lower lip and Loki licked it off before he drew away with a sigh, contented. Thor's hands grasped at empty air and fell to his sides.

“You're a menace,” he rasped. His eyes were unfocused, somewhat glassy. “I should have known better than to kiss you.” He touched his lip with a grimace.

“I must have looked too fetching,” Loki smirked, took pity on him and drew closer again, allowed Thor to put his arms around him. “And you've never been much for planning, haven't you?”

Thor murmured something under his breath, traced the curve of one of Loki's horns with his fingertips, along fine golden chains which encircled it. “You are very beautiful,” he said after a moment, softly. Loki snorted.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“I've been under the impression you don't care much to be flattered,” Thor's fingers combed through his hair, smoothing errant strands which had got loose from his braid, tucking amber beads into place. “I'm not a silver-tongued liar like you, I don't speak empty words to earn myself something I don't deserve.”

“In other words, you are a fool,” Loki said fondly. He found Thor's discarded cloak and wrapped himself in the red fabric, not for the lack of warmth, but he liked the sensation on his skin, soft feeling of thick wool, Thor's scent. 

“You often take my honesty for foolishness,” Thor pressed his lips to Loki's temple and reluctantly loosened his embrace, standing up from the windowsill. “I wonder what it says about you – or me.”

“Do tell me if you come to any conclusion on that,” Loki smirked. He wrapped the cloak around Thor's shoulders, fastened a brooch which held it in place. “I'm not holding my breath, though.”

“I preferred you silent,” Thor smiled slightly, a crooked little smile Loki would have never expected from him. “You were quite agreeable then.”

“Well then, you will have to work for it.”

“I think I shall enjoy it.”

Loki wasn't sure what he had expected, but certainly not Thor walking him to his chamber, bidding him good night, and leaving with the same smile. The oaf should not have it in him to be so devious, to have the last word and leave Loki still vaguely unsatisfied and very, very baffled with the whole situation.

*

Thor deserved to suffer for his slight, Loki decided.

His determination lasted for the whole day, these strangely silent hours when the corridors were empty and the courtiers slept off their hangovers. Loki spent most of it in his children's rather disapproving company. Obviously he didn't tell them what had passed, but they must have picked on his mood, or maybe smelled Thor on him or worked some other magic which gave them clairvoyance, but thankfully refrained from asking uncomfortable questions. Judging from Hel's expression, perhaps they didn't want to know the details of their father's activities at all. 

In the evening he made some weak excuses and found himself in front of Thor's door, restless, very angry with himself and with Thor. He was rather certain that he should not be there at all. Thor attempted to play a game with him and coming to him so early would make Loki lose, and if there was something he hated above all else, it was losing. However, more than that he loathed not getting something he wanted very badly. 

He shook his head, unable to clear his thoughts, resigned himself to a few moment of humiliation, dropped his magical disguise and went through the door without knocking. In hindsight, perhaps the most humiliating part of the whole situation was the fact that Thor had been expecting him.

“I still hate you,” he informed Thor. “I actually consider hitting you in the face.”

“That would be too obvious for you,” Thor's eyes glinted with amusement. “I shall be on watch for frogs in my mead, though.”

Thor was sprawled on a small sofa, long legs thrown over the armrest and hanging in the air. Loki decided standing at the entrance would not help matters, locked the door behind him and crossed the floor, trying his best to look indifferent, or at least offended, and failing. He wanted to wipe that radiant smile off Thor's face, make him regret toying with Loki. The whole situation would be much easier if he had any success in keeping his hands off Thor. 

They managed to fit somehow on the sofa, Loki straddling Thor's hips, hand clutched in his shirt, and he could not stop touching. 

“You have missed me after all,” Thor smiled.

Loki hissed, annoyed. Suddenly there were strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer, warm mouth on his, fingers tugging at his braid, until black curtain of his hair came loose, several of the amber beads scattering on the floor. 

“I know I did miss you,” Thor whispered in his ear. “But I wanted you to come to me.”

“You stupid, arrogant, stupid, teasing...”

“Do not forget stupid.”

Thor kissed the corner of his mouth, line of his jaw, his fingers trailing the lines of Loki's markings gently. Loki sighed, suddenly unable to remember why exactly he was supposed to be angry with Thor. Then he was on his back, with Thor on top of him, warm and heavy, still smelling infuriatingly of honey and cinnamon.

“Remind me again, why am I letting you do this?” He breathed out when Thor drew away a little and he remembered how to form words again. Thor suddenly looked thoughtful, tracing the shape of Loki's collarbone.

“I am not sure,” he said softly. “You have little reason to enjoy my company.”

“I must be out of my mind,” Loki sighed and took advantage of Thor's distraction and climbed on top of him again, his hands deliberately cold, sneaking under Thor's tunic. “Your company at the moment is pleasant enough, if that helps,” he added with a smirk.

“Why, thank you,” Thor pulled him close again. “I'm trying.” His mouth was on Loki's neck, along his collarbone, his shoulder. Loki swallowed a sound rising in his throat, tightened his fingers buried in Thor's hair, and utterly failed to come up with a reason why they shouldn't be doing this. It was so innocent still, deceptively, curious and hesitant, nothing much, nothing that could not be attributed to mutual fascination with each other's strangeness.

*

Laufey never had much faith in his eldest son's mental faculties, but this defied all reason.

He talked pleasantly to the swamp witch who had apparently decided that gracing Laufey's halls with her presence after she hadn't been there for a millennium was the best thing to do with her time. How he had loved not seeing her for so long. Angrboda was a constant in his life, something weird living far enough that he was able to put her out of his mind most of the time. Those few years when his son had been seeing her, and learning from her, and Laufey was way more comfortable not knowing what more, worried him a little, but thankfully Loki saw reason soon enough and left her alone. For her part, she ignored Laufey completely, sending all customary tributes on time and otherwise never bothering to show her face among the Jotnar. Until now.

When Angrboda was finally gone, Laufey stood up from his throne and went to see Helblindi, leaving angry tendrils of frost in his wake.

Helblindi was sparring with his brother, ice blades with dulled edges glinting in the green moonlight. It took them a few seconds to register their father's presence, and then a moment to realize what mood he was in. Laufey felt the ground shaking a little under his feet, freezing wind howling around him. His claws were frosted over, their points needle-sharp. Return of the Casket gave him back most of his power, bound him back to his realm, to the Winter, and he could hear stars singing and glaciers creaking thousands of miles from where he stood, he could listen to the noble dead whispering their secrets and to the vast dark sea. They could hear him, all of them, every last one of the Jotnar, hear his footsteps, his breath, his anger howling and whirling under his ribcage if he came near enough.

“Father.” Helblind let his blade melt, shoved his brother aside. Byleistr took one look at Laufey's face and walked away, bowing, not quite running.

“I would ask you to explain yourself, my son, if I had any hope that something worthwhile would come out of your mouth,” Laufey grated. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Would you be happier knowing?” Helblindi met his eyes defiantly. For all he lacked in intellect, he was never one for cowardice. Laufey felt grudgingly impressed. When he was Helblindi's age, he preferred to be clever than to be courageous. Apparently Loki was the only one of his children who had taken after him.

“I am not happy at all,” Laufey dug his fingers into Helblindi's shoulder, careful not to draw blood, and shook him violently. “Not happy at all. You should have come to me, but you know that. You should have never come to Asgard, but you also know that. The fates must loathe me, to punish me with such a foolish heir.”

His voice was clipped, measured. Helblindi was nearly white and trembling slightly, his eyes huge and liquid, never quite daring to dart to the side. Laufey shook him once more for good measure and let him go. 

“You could have died,” he said very softly. “You could have died in pain and alone and we would have never known. They could have made a prisoner of you too, another royal prize, they could have hurt your brother for that. Don't you realize what you have risked going there? My heir, my heart? Do you think I could have endured the loss of another child?”

He started walking, frozen ground cracking beneath his feet, Helblindi following silently at his heels. 

“I had to see him, Father,” he said quietly when they walked into the garden, stone trees and ice flowers blooming high towards black sky. “I had to see for myself. I was careful not to stay for long, not to draw attention.”

“And did you see him?” 

“Yes.”

Laufey stopped abruptly in the patch of ghostly green light among the towering trees.

“And you have not told me?” he said, his voice suddenly broken. He had not believed that his brave, foolish son had actually managed to find his brother, not among the crowds of Asgard, thousands upon thousands of strangers' faces. “You have seen you brother and have not told me?”

The nearest tree shattered with a scream of a living creature slaughtered.

“He is fine, Father,” Helblindi said thickly. “As fine as he could be. I met him when he sneaked out of the All-father's palace to the city, saw his face. He scolded me for being foolish as well.” His lips curved in a smile that lacked any sort of joy as he finally looked away.

“'Tis good to know that one of you has wits enough to see the foolishness of it,” Laufey growled. “How does he look? Do they treat him well, as the prince deserves?”

“He did not say. He looked well enough, though. I saw him first wearing a glamor, but I would recognize him everywhere, under any spell.”

“And you were under the glamor, too,” Laufey smiled sharply and Helblindi blanched. “The web of spells to hide you and change you. I want them.”

“Father?”

“No words, Helblindi. Not a word more.”

“Father, you have told me...”

Laufey felt his smile shift into a grimace.

“I am past being clever.”

*

Laufey often heard how the All-father used to wander his realm in a disguise of an elderly beggar, how he used to sit near fireplaces and thresholds, watch and listen to his subjects speak, to learn their ways, how they live, what they think of him. He thought it only fitting that he should wear the same attire. Angrboda's spells shortened him, wrapped him in soft flesh and pink skin, gave pale hair in long tangles on his head. It lay like a layer of slime over his body, tight and repulsive. He hid his eyes under the wide brim of his hat, draped a long coat over his body and went to see his son.

Nobody paid him much attention as he walked through streets of Asgard. In the middle of autumn the heat was less oppressive, and the wind was pleasantly cold on his face. He was unused to such enclosed spaces, buildings crowding around him, hanging low over his head. The sun was in his eyes, too bright, nearly painful despite thin cover of clouds. He pulled the brim of his hat low and shuffled on, keeping to shadows. There was precious little sunlight in Jotunheim, a few minutes or hours each day in spring and autumn, pale unending summer days of midnight sun, and none at all during long black winters, but the sun of his realm seemed bleached, less radiant. Settlements were also less crowded, spread widely on the icy plain with their tall spires and stone strongholds to keep the monsters and biting wind at bay. Asgard seemed very foreign with its warmth, its noise, overabundance of people and houses built next to each other.

An old beggar in ragged clothing seemed a common enough sight. Laufey felt invisible, suddenly unimportant. During those months since the Casket had been returned to them heads turned before his people could hear his footsteps, almost answered his questions before he could ask them, heard his voice even when he whispered his words too low for them to make them out. Now he was ordinary, just one of the others, a tall bony man wrapped in a too-large coat, watching them with icy bright eyes from under his hat.

He slipped past the palace guards when they looked the other way and charmed his way to the kitchens, where a serving girl allowed him to sit in the corner and brought him some hot soup to eat. There were a few other ragged people sitting around. Apparently charity was in fashion in the All-father's halls. Laufey hid his distaste at the smell and heat, listened for a while to them talk, but they spoke of nothing of importance. Certainly not about the wayward Jotunn taken as another of the All-father's war prizes. He sat there until no one paid any more attention to him and sneaked through the open door to the courtyard. He crouched in the shadowed corner and waited.

Helblindi had told him that Loki was using a glamor to hide his features, but it took Laufey's less than a second to recognize his son's face under a stranger's skin. He was walking hand in hand with a tall, muscular man familiar enough to Laufey, arguing about something animatedly. His hand was brushing Odinson's fingers as they talked, ostensibly by accident, but Laufey narrowed his eyes at him anyway, already feeling suspicious. They separated whenever somebody went by them, but gravitated toward each other anyway an instant after that.

Laufey decided he saw enough. He needed to talk to his son, but he could not do it there. He turned to leave, hid in another place and wait for a better occasion, and felt eyes watching him. There was a slender girl next to him, pale, fair-haired, in a gray dress. She regarded him impassively and from the look in her eye he saw she had recognized him anyway. He smiled grimly.

“Hello, granddaughter,” he said quietly. 

“I thought I saw you,” she crouched next to him, one more shadow among shadows. She did not seem surprised, but again, Hel never did. “You are taking a great risk, Grandfather.”

“Tell me something I do not know.”

“I thought it bore repeating. I swear none of you has any reason left at all,” she scoffed, finding his hand among the folds of his coat and clutching it tightly. “We have missed you.”

“And I have you as well,” his voice almost broke and it took him a few breaths before he could control it again. “I have learned of a way to come here, so I did.”

“How?” she narrowed his eyes at him in an expression he used to see on his father's face, on his own in the mirror. “You wear a glamor, you must have escaped the Watcher's sight and cross the worlds.”

“I had no intention of risking your well-being,” he said quietly. “However, an opportunity presented itself and I took advantage of it.”

“Someone must have helped you,” she mused. “Who would be powerful enough?”

“Reckless enough,” he smiled at her. “Angrboda, obviously.”

Hel scoffed.

“Obviously. I did not think of her. I thought you hated her.”

“I do,” he said lightly. “It was Helblindi's doing. He sought her out and somehow begged or tricked the secret out of her. I thought you knew. He went there some time ago and saw your father.”

“Did he,” she said flatly. Laufey chuckled.

“Loki will have a bit of explaining to do, I see.”

“Oh yes, he certainly will,” she said blandly. Laufey felt a bit of sympathy toward his son.

“I cannot stay long. Can you bring him to me?”

“Yes, if I can separate him from Odinson for long enough.”

“I believe I have seen them together. Care to explain?”

“Father,” she announced grimly, “is a fool.”

*

Hel led him into the gardens, vast stretches of land where the trees and the flowers grew freely under the golden sun. There was a small clearing in the shadow where she left him in the company of the silent wolf and the serpent coiled in the tall grass. He could hear them, hear their fierce, heartfelt welcomes for a second before they drew away to guard him. They looked well enough, Fenrir's fur shining and thick, Jormungandr's scales lustrous in their poisonous green. Laufey could not quite convey in their mind-speech how had he missed them, how empty the halls seemed without them all, even his mind's voice shaking and broken. 

There was hesitation in his grandchildren's silent voices, an unvoiced concern. Laufey did not ask, and they did not tell him on their own. If it had been important, he would have already known. He sat on the ground with his back propped on the tree's trunk, with the wolf curled around his feet, standing guard. Laufey dragged his fingers through his fur and got a quietly satisfied grumble for his effort.

It did not take Hel long to find Loki and lead him there. Laufey's heart leaped a moment before he saw his son, a slender shape wrapped in a green tunic, under a fair-skinned Aesir glamor. Laufey felt something constricting in his chest, something cold and tight, not unlike hatred, not directed at his son, but at the world which forced such a place upon him. Before he quite realized it, he was on his feet, gathered Loki in his arms and held him for a small eternity, this familiar-unfamiliar shape. 

“We have something to talk about, you and I,” he rasped instead of all the things that stuck in his throat, and reluctantly let his son go. Loki shifted into his real shape, thinner and paler than Laufey was used to seeing him, but still with his hair tied in a sleek braid, glittering with gold and amber beads, gold bands in his ears, chains around his horns. He did not quite look as the Jotunn prince should, but well enough under the circumstances.

“I shall leave you then,” Hel said smugly. “Brothers, come.”

Laufey took off his hat and shook Angrboda's glamor off with a sigh of relief. Hel and her brothers would be watching out and warn them in advance if someone was coming. He peered closely into his son face. It was expressionless, but he noticed telltale heat rising on his cheeks.

“I missed you too, Father,” he said, apparently aiming for sarcasm. Laufey smacked him lightly over the head.

“I liked to think that one of my sons had an ounce of intellect,” Laufey told him. “I was apparently mistaken. 'Tis a pity, truly. Thankfully I still have a granddaughter who has not lost her ability to think. There is still hope.”

Loki turned a violent shade of purple.

“What do you mean, Father?” He asked almost calmly. 

“Of all the foolish things you may have been up to here you have chosen the All-father's son?” Laufey smiled and knew perfectly well it was not a nice expression at all. “I have seen you two together. I have talked with your daughter. You cannot lie to me, son. You never could.”

“So what if I have?” Loki snapped. “If I may say so, you have chosen Farbauti once.”

“He was at least of the same species.” Laufey lowered his head until he could look his son straight in the eyes, red staring into red. Loki's markings on his face almost exactly mirrored his. “And do not bring him into this.”

“I am here and I shall remain here for a long time still. I believe I can choose any company I wish and you get little say in this matter, Father,” Loki's voice was quiet, measured, dangerous, yet Laufey knew him well enough to hear the defensiveness in his voice. Loki did not want approval, he knew it would be long in coming, but he bore accusations very poorly.

“Really,” Laufey hissed. “Really, Loki. 'Tis true I cannot forbid you anything, not in the present situation, but are you foolish enough to ignore advice of your parent who is much wiser in these matters than you are?”

Loki looked away and suddenly seemed younger, more vulnerable, and Laufey could not bear speaking any more. He knew Loki was making a mistake, he knew it perfectly well, and that he would not be there to protect and defend him, and that pained him the most. 

“If you have any advice, say it, Father,” Loki growled. “Otherwise, leave me be. Have you come such a long way to lecture me?”

Laufey sighed.

“You should know better. I have come to see you. I am concerned for your safety, that is all, and that is my right as a parent you shall not deprive me of. I am simply curious. What do you see in that As?”

Loki's face looked thoughtful for a moment.

“He is a fool, speaks loudly and laughs even louder, and I hate him very much, and he has such a radiant smile as if he carried the sun everywhere he goes, brings me fine wine and sweets when I am too lost in study to remember eating, and he fights like a thunderstorm, and is very foolish indeed, and I hate him.

In spite of all his worries Laufey could not contain a laugh, a sharp, barking sound.

“By the Winter, have I said this all out loud?” Loki sounded horrified. 

“Shall I remind you that the last time you sounded like that you spent three weeks picking flowers in the swamp?”

“No. Please, no.”

“As you wish,” Laufey smiled, sat on the ground again and pulled Loki down to sit next to him. “I still think you lack the wits of a mouse, but maybe something good could come out of it. Have you given any thought to a lasting peace? I would not have you spend your whole life as a hostage.”

“Wha-- Father!”

“Is this a moment when your silver tongue turns to lead?” Laufey asked, affecting a bored tone. It was idle speculation, obviously, but it had always served him well to plant an idea in Loki's mind and see what grew of it. “You must have thought about it. You are too clever not to and you are my son.”

Laufey hated the very idea, but he was, above all, practical. It was much better to be a prince consort of Asgard than a war prize. Unless there was some way to return Loki to Jotunheim without bloodshed, but he could not see it, not yet.

“Maybe I have,” Loki said, voice clipped. “I believe it is too soon, though. Wait a little longer, Father.”

“How can you ask me to wait?” Laufey never meant to say it aloud, but his caution seemed to have abandoned him hours ago. “How, when my child is trapped in a hostile realm and I have no way to see him? I fear to put too much in my letters, lest they think you or me weak, you cannot work magic and talk to me, I cannot travel freely to this realm. How could I be patient? Were you bound to this Odinson, they would have to allow you coming and going as you pleased.”

“And I would be bound nonetheless,” Loki said, leaning into him, a cold familiar shape.

“We all are,” Laufey gripped his shoulder, felt claws digging into skin, but Loki made no noise of pain. “Bound to our family, to our land, to the Winter. You know you do not belong to yourself, not only. None of us do, neither your brothers nor I.”

“I know, Father. All I ask you is a little patience. I believe that the Queen has taken a liking for me, as did the Vanir lady who has been a hostage for centuries. I have never come to harm here. There is still time, to form friendships, alliances. No good would come out of rushing matters.”

Laufey grunted and released him reluctantly. 

“I trust your judgment,” he said thickly. “I always have, you know that. Please consider what we have talked about, though. It may be your way out, not a perfect one, but...” he felt a smile tugging at his lips. Loki's scowl deepened. “I see you. You are not as adverse to the idea as you are trying to present yourself.”

“Sometimes I hate you all very much, Father,” Loki growled. “You can try to arrange my marriage, but do stay away from my feelings on the matter. I shall do the reasonable thing in the end, you should remember that.”

“I shall be silent on the matter of your feelings when you are sure of them,” Laufey smiled wider, all sharp teeth.

“Father, just – stop. And if you tell anyone about this – if you tell my brothers about this – I swear you shall be finding frogs in your soup for the rest of your life, wherever you go.”

“Threat noted. Oh, my son, how have I missed you.”

“Tell me about home,” Loki's face was suddenly distant, closed. Laufey would have preferred him crying. “Tell me how it looks now. Tell me what you have built, what trees you have grown.”

Laufey did, even though words were garbled and tangled in his throat, he tried, tried his best to paint an insufficient picture with inadequate words. Loki was very young when the Casket had been taken away from them and remembered very little of Jotunheim in her full glory. Laufey had no tongue in which to speak about tall slender spires and towers, about thick strong walls and voices dead and alive echoing in black stone halls. Byleistr had taken to growing trees in their gardens, tending fragile branches and frozen flowers. 

“I shall see it, one day,” Loki said quietly. “I promise, Father.”

“And I shall remember your promise, and come one day to claim it,” Laufey said, tasting ash in his mouth.

“I would expect no less,” Loki whispered.

*

Thor was only vaguely surprised when someone barged into his room late in the night, and suddenly there was a breath of frost in the air, a touch of winter, shimmer of magic. He sat up in his bed, blinking in sudden brightness, and saw Loki wearing his real face, illuminated by faint green lights circling around his horns. The Jotunn came to him without saying a word, sat on the edge of the bed and embraced him, painfully, sharp fingernails digging into Thor's skin.

“What happened?” Thor whispered, leaning into the touch, touching Loki's hair, his face. “Are you crying?” There was a layer of frost blooming over his skin, little crystals melting under Thor's fingers.

“No,” Loki choked out, hiding his face in Thor's neck. Thor shivered. Loki was colder than usual, sharp and freezing to the touch. “Nothing happened. Be silent. I prefer you silent.”

“Fair enough,” Thor murmured, pulling the Jotunn closer. Loki let him, shaking wordlessly, allowed him to unbraid his hair, comb out the knots with his fingers. Small amber beads that Loki kept woven into it he took out one by one, untangled golden threads which held them in place. Loki sighed, suddenly boneless, sagging into Thor's body. Thor whispered something soothing, nonsensical into his ear, kept him close to his chest, warming slowly in his arms. Long strands cascaded down Loki's back, very black against his blue skin, against Thor's white sheets. They smelled of winter air, of dried grass and library dust, old parchment and old ink.

“You should be foolish about it,” Loki whispered, broken. “You should make me angry with demands and misplaced words.”

“Would you tell me then?”

“No,” Loki shifted slightly, his breathing ragged against Thor's skin. “I would not tell you anyway.”

“It's fine.”

Loki laughed, a quiet rasping sound, and kissed him. His lips were soft and dry, tasting of salt.

“I told you it's fine,” Thor murmured against his mouth. Without any conscious decision his hands were tracing invisible lines of his markings along his back, curves and sharp angles of scar-like lines. 

“I hate it,” Loki whispered next to his ear, a little breathless. “I hate that I have come for comfort to you, of all people.” His hands were on Thor, dragging fingernails along his bare chest, not painlessly, leaving cold, numb paths behind them.

“I know.” Thor was suddenly very aware of his own nakedness, thin cover of bedsheets and clothing separating them. “I do not think this is a good idea,” he said softly, with an effort, and let his hands drop. Loki hissed, surprised and annoyed.

“Why don't you just take what is offered?”

“You're being foolish again,” Thor sighed, sitting up, trying to ignore baser instincts. Loki was a green shadow lit by magic, wide-eyed and flushed, with curtains of dark hair falling around his face. Thor pulled the bedsheets tighter around himself. “Even I can see it is not a good time for that.”

“Fine,” Loki's voice was angry, clipped. “I shall leave, then.”

Thor caught his wrist before he could get to his feet.

“Stay,” he said, pulling Loki back again.

“Why should I? You clearly do not--”

Thor put his fingers on Loki's lips, silencing him.

“There will be other times,” he said, smiling slightly, and pulled Loki down on the bed, arms around him, his head on his chest. Loki made a token effort to fight him, but finally settled down with a scowl, the top of his head brushing Thor's chin. 

“You arrogant, prudish, ungrateful...”

“I know. It's fine.” He pulled a sheet over Loki. “Try to sleep. I will be here.”

“That's very reassuring,” Loki murmured, voice dripping with sarcasm, but his arms were tight around Thor.

*

There was sunlight in his face.

The windows in his chambers faced north, and he always kept curtains closed anyway, so none of it could reach him. Also he was tangled in bedsheets, itchy and uncomfortable after sleeping the whole night in his clothes, and there was another body just next to him, heavy arms encircling him, radiating heat. Loki scrambled to get away, suddenly desperate for air. Thor murmured something in protest without waking up and tightened his embrace, pulling Loki closer to his chest. In sleep he seemed peaceful, regal, golden and radiant, with a halo of sun-colored hair strewn around his head on the white pillow. There were dark patches on his skin, marks where Loki had dug his fingers into flesh. 

Then he remembered what exactly he had been doing last night, what he had said, how he had sounded. He had cried, he actually cried in front of another person, in front of Thor of all people, cried hard enough to freeze his tears and turn his touch to ice. He traced his fingers along frostbitten mark on Thor's chest as if in apology. 

Hand on his shoulder tightened suddenly, moved along his arm, warm and callused. Loki raised his head and met impossibly blue eyes, bright and focused.

“Don't go just yet,” Thor whispered, dragging his fingers through Loki hair. Loki let him, lay his head on his chest again in resigned exhaustion. There were hands rubbing his shoulders, his back, soothing, chaste. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” Loki said, surprising himself. 

“That's good,” there was a smile in Thor's voice. Loki found himself entirely unwilling to untangle himself from him, even though it was constricting, uncomfortable and stiflingly hot. His hair was a mess, strewn around them both in tousled strands, twined around Thor's fingers. 

“Don't you have anything to do?”

“It's still early.”

Loki closed his eyes. He knew perfectly well, on an intellectual level, that this moment of weakness was inexcusable. At least he had had sense enough not to tell Thor about Laufey. Thor seemed content not knowing the reason for Loki's misery, humming something under his breath, disentangling Loki's hair, following lines on his arms and back with his fingers.

“My daughter thinks I am a fool,” Loki said after a long while.

“That is rather strange, is it not? I was under the impression that she thought everyone but you were foolish.”

Loki snorted, tracing a random pattern on Thor's chest with the top of his finger.

“I am no longer in this category, I'm afraid.”

“Is it because of me?” Thor sounded worried, his hand in Loki's hair suddenly still. 

“Partly,” Loki kissed his collarbone, not feeling very concerned. “Do not claim the whole responsibility. I still have no idea how she found out.”

“She is clever,” Thor smiled slightly, moving his hand again, smoothing loose strands. “After all, she has taken after you. The question is, does everyone know by now? I would not be surprised.”

“I don't think so,” Loki said hesitantly. “She dislikes talking to people and would certainly never gossip. She may have told your mother, though, or Lady Freyja.”

Thor shivered. “Fates, I hope not.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” Loki purred. Hands in his hair tightened suddenly.

“I shall tell everyone, if that's what you want,” Thor growled, pulling him up for a kiss. It was slow and gentle enough, but Loki's breathing was quick and shallow when Thor finally let him go. 

“I'm fine as it is,” he murmured into Thor's neck. “Who would have thought you are so devious.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a bit of non-graphic violence and then sexual content, so, uh, I felt the need to warn about it...?

Loki had contemplated his death before, but never relished the feeling. 

There was this time, for instance, when he met Angrboda for the first time, a scrawny youth with too much confidence in his own cleverness. On the island in the heart of the swamp, surrounded by trees of stone and iron, he looked into the witch's face and realized he may have bitten off more that he could chew. Angrboda allowed herself to be swayed by his fast talking and quick thinking, with a hint of amusement, but at least refrained from setting her wolf children on him or eating him outright – he had seen her doing both on more than one occasion. Of course, he was madly in love with her by then. Anyway, looking her in the face for the first time, and he had to crane his neck rather high to meet her eyes, was one endless, frozen moment when he was certain his life would end there and now. 

Or another time, when he ventured alone into the tundra, with only his spear and his magic to his name, in a hissy fit after something he didn't remember now. He ran the plain, quick as the wind, under boundless emptiness of sky and ever-dancing pattern of green and red aurora. The earth shook beneath his feet and he felt as if the world belonged to him. The feeling lasted until he came upon one of the nameless beasts, freshly awoken from its slumber, vexed and very, very hungry. Loki managed to outrun it in the end, though he was fleeing for hours, until he lost it among rocks and broken, deserted palaces of the Jotnar many miles from the place it had started its chase.

And yet when he looked into the All-father face, long white hair and one piercing eye and scars upon scars half-visible from under the eye-patch, he shivered inwardly, his palm sweating and his glamor barely in place. Odin seemed benevolent enough, but it took one liar to recognize another. Loki stood his ground in front of nearly empty table where Odin had called him after supper one day. Frigga and Thor were sitting beside him, outwardly solemn and official, but Loki drew comfort from their presence nonetheless.

“We are planning a hunt in a few days' time,” Odin said. His voice was neutral. “You seem to have made yourself quite at home here. I was wondering whether you would like to accompany us.”

The words were bland, with no hint of an edge, but Loki had to curl his hands into fists to hide their trembling. “Why the change of mind?” he asked, trying to match the All-father's voice for indifference and nearly succeeding. He knew the Aesir organized hunts almost on a weekly basis, but he had never been invited before. Suddenly there were dozens of images in his mind, hundreds of whispered stories about 'unfortunate accidents' which happened to the inconvenient. While he was reasonably sure his death wouldn't benefit Odin in any case, he never doubted the All-father had an ulterior motive.

“Well, it has only recently come to my attention that you may enjoy it,” Odin shrugged. “Am I mistaken?”

“And what if I refuse?” Loki's voice was mild.

“Nothing, obviously. You are free to do so.”

Loki allowed a bitter smile to curve his lips.

“If you ask me so sweetly, how can I refuse?” he mused aloud. “When shall we leave?”

He thought he could see relief and dread mixed in Thor's eyes.

*

They set out at dawn a few days later, riding fine horses from Odin's stables, carrying enough weapons gleaming in an early sun to hunt an army of beasts, surrounded by shouting hunters, barking dogs. Loki never fancied himself a rider. True, he had fashioned himself a horse when he was but a youth, but had rarely ridden him, finding his own two feet faster and surer on Jotunheim's uneven grounds. Besides, he could give himself a pair of wings and soar the skies as a hawk, or run in a wolf's form. The point was now moot, as Odin rode Sleipnir, and Loki was given another horse, a quiet grayish mare. He still felt somewhat unsteady in the saddle.

Freyja appeared beside him, much more confident, clad in man's clothing instead of her flowing dresses for once, her hair braided tightly around her head. She looked every part the warrior she was, with her long boar spear and a shield strapped to her back.

“How do you like it?” she asked, smiling.

“Hot. Noisy.” He pretended to sneer and she laughed, seeing easily through the deception as he meant her to do. “Couldn't bring a book.”

“You're already enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

He narrowed his eyes in the sun, feeling his smile dissolve into something more honest. There was fresh wind on his face, in his hair, smell of wet leaves and wet earth. It was so different from Jotunheim and a thousand worlds he used to walk avoiding Heimdall's gaze, and yet he felt freer, content. He was not a creature to be locked into four walls and kept under the stone ceiling.

“Immensely.” 

“Well, these things are always fun,” she said. “You get away for a few days, have an excuse to get yourself covered with blood and everyone congratulates you in the end.”

Loki thought back to hunts he had gone on with his brothers. Once or twice even his father came along. Those were always dangerous, always dancing on the edge, and they didn't kill the beasts for sport or for food, but for survival. Most of them were much bigger, stronger and nastier than the Jotnar, and could kill as surely as the Winter could. They enjoyed them nevertheless, one more way to win over the cruel nature, prove yourself a master, not a subject. The beasts came back anyway as if they struck out from the ice and wind.

“I doubt that you have anything big enough for me,” he told her.

“They say size isn't everything.”

For several minutes they were laughing so hard that they drew odd looks from the others. Finally Loki wiped the tears from his eyes and managed to get his breath back.

“I've walked right into it, haven't I?”

“Aye,” Freyja's voice was still a little choked. “You should do this more often.”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

He fell silent after that and Freyja finally rode away to speak to Thor. Loki kept stealing glances toward him, trying to be discreet about it, but he suspected he failed abominably in that aspect. They rode through reddish, thick forest, which despite being only a few hours' ride away from the city looked surprisingly wild. The path was narrow and steep, the trees old and gnarly. Autumn had come in earnest, the forest aflame with yellows and reds. The scent of black earth was full and rich in Loki's nostrils. Everything in Asgard seemed to be of this reddish-golden hue after a fashion, lavish colorings of polished wood and precious metals, utterly unlike Jotunheim's cold, knife-edged gleam, the world separated into black and white, drowning in faint green light from above.

Soon they heard dogs barking and galloped through the forest, until they arrived on a small clearing where the animal was cornered, bleeding from several shallow bites on its muzzle and sides, little eyes shining dangerously, tusks gleaming with red. It was much smaller than some of the beasts Loki had seen and killed, but it seemed unwise to underestimate it, especially considering a dog lying nearby in a pool of its own blood, its side and throat torn. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, all too familiar. Loki felt his fingers clutching his spear involuntarily. It was also different from what he was used to, small quarters, the dog dying nearby. He preferred his own two feet, the vast sky above, solid ground below and room for maneuvering. 

Suddenly he felt Odin's appraising gaze on himself and couldn't breathe.

“Shall our guest try?”

*

It took Loki several moments to realize he was gripping the shaft of his spear so hard that it had nearly broken in half. Its dull end was dug deeply into the ground, the spearhead invisible in the meat of the boar's chest. The animal's dull, dead eyes were staring at Loki with a sort of accusation even without the spark of life. It was only for the wings behind the blade that it didn't simply worked its way along the shaft and presumably tore Loki in half. He had a moment of clarity, of perfect terror when he was on his feet, aiming the spear at the boar, and suddenly realized there would be no second chances, that if he missed, the enraged animal would probably severely wound or kill him. It shook the dogs off seconds before Loki was prepared to strike, saw him and charged with a single-minded purpose he had never seen before. It was pure luck that Loki was quicker by a fraction. During their hunts in Jotunheim he could always retreat, aim another strike, for the beasts were much larger, stronger, and thus much slower.

He dug his heels into the ground and managed to tear the spear from the animal with a sickening sound of crunching bones and tearing flesh. Then he remembered where he was, propped the spear on his shoulder and sent a red, wolfish smile toward the All-father.

“I hope you have found it acceptable,” he said, almost managing to control his voice.

Odin inclined his head, a shadow of a smile dancing upon his lips.

“Yes, I believe I have. Don't you agree?”

Freyja was smiling, widely, greedily. Thor, conversely, was deathly pale, gripping the reins so tightly that his knuckles went white. Loki made a mental note to tease him later about his lack of belief in Loki's abilities. Slowly he was getting his balance back, though he was still unsure about the purpose of this exercise. Considering that All-father allowed both his son and Freyja to hunt another two boars in exactly the same way Loki had done, he probably did not have his death in mind. Was Loki being tested? If so, he wasn't sure for what purpose.

It was fully dark when they finally got back, and as Freyja had promised, drenched in sweat, smelling of blood and earth. There were glances in Loki's direction, carefully guarded, vaguely respectful. He supposed that like in every warrior culture, killing something dangerous immediately raised you in social order. This method had worked for him in Jotunheim, at least for some people who eventually stopped calling for his death and accepted him grudgingly. Maybe he should have given more attention to sparring rings and actually winning fights instead of mutual testing of their boundaries with Thor.

Loki had one thing on his mind, and it was to clean up and then sleep forever. Hopefully they would forget about him when the time came for celebration over this whole sorry affair. He managed to sneak out near the entrance hall of the palace, silencing his footsteps and averting the others' gazes with a breath of seidr. When he finally reached his room, he could barely keep his eyelids open. 

And yet as soon as he opened the door, he was met with an armful of clothes, a brick of soap and his very, very disgusted daughter.

“You're not getting this in our bathroom,” she said with an air of finality. She must have seen them from the window, though how she had managed to smell or notice the details about him, the layer of grime and blood on his face, was beyond him.

“You can't be serious,” he growled, taking the burden from her automatically. He looked behind her and noticed Fenrir furrowing his snout and turning his head away demonstratively. “Are you sending me to communal bathrooms just because of little blood?”

“Yes,” she said, matter-of-fact. 

“I regret the day I made you,” he lied through gritted teeth, turned around and left, closing the door very quietly behind him. He thought he heard a long-suffering sigh, and a distressed grumble from the wolf's throat. 

He tried not to think about all the people who were probably using the baths at every given moment in time. Hopefully he would be able to scrape all the filth off his skin and be away before someone recognized him, and then he could return to his own bathroom and soak in the cold water without his daughter throwing a fit. 

When he finally reached the communal bathrooms, wonder of wonders, there were only a few people inside, sitting on wooden benches around hot stones, nearly invisible in clouds of steam. How could they find this pleasurable, Loki had no idea, and never planned to find out. He closed the door to the other chamber where the bathtubs were behind him, chose the furthest one for himself and couldn't help dragging his hand through the water, watching ice form around his fingers, lowering the temperature until he found it bearable. He submerged with a sigh of relief. 

The water was nearly black when he was done, and he still felt vaguely dirty. There must have been something about Asgard, he thought, putting a clean tunic on. He was nearly out of soap, but it was well worth it. At least he wasn't feeling desperate enough to try the sauna. It was strangely quiet when he opened the door and soon saw why, the other people who had been sitting there must have gone about their business, and there was only one person there, one who hadn't been there before. Loki suddenly felt much less sleepy.

“I had no idea you were there,” Thor said, raising his eyebrows and smiling a little. He sat gloriously naked, half-hidden in a cloud of steam, sweat shining on his skin. Loki was certain that half of his glamor had peeled off in a space of a heartbeat. 

“I was exiled from my rooms,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, which was not much. “Pray that you never have such headstrong daughters, Odinson.”

“Since I met yours, I have prayed every day,” Thor moved to the side, as if in invitation. The heat was almost unbearable. Loki's shirt was clinging to his body, soaking wet within seconds. How exactly he had crossed the threshold and found himself in the sauna, he wasn't sure.

“I shall make sure to tell her,” he said, allowing his mouth to run on its own. There was no finished thought in his head, they all seemed tangled, chasing each other. 

“Should I be worried that she'll murder me in my sleep?” Thor's laughter was a little strained, his eyes wide and dark. Loki dropped his filthy clothes, towels and pitiful remnant of the soap somewhere behind him, his shirt followed almost without conscious input from him. There was frost forming on his fingernails, half-melted water trickling to the floor and evaporating with a hiss. He was sweating, profusely, and freezing the steam around him until it hung in an icy mist. Thor shivered, almost imperceptibly. It was much colder now and Loki bit by bit remembered how to breathe. 

“Maybe,” he said, a little higher than usual. 

“Well, we'll just have to live with this risk, won't we?” Loki was finally by Thor's side, the time stretched and collapsed on itself, a series of unconnected moments sunk in amber. “Sit by me,” Thor said suddenly, impatiently, for a second every inch of a prince instead of a naked man wrapped in whitish tongues of steam. 

“It's too hot,” Loki whispered, a lie, for flowers of ice and frost had been blooming from his footprints, freezing the air with his breath. Thor was scalding to the touch, and flinched under Loki's fingers, but refused to move away. His hands were on Loki's shoulders, on his neck, and in their wake the last remnants of his glamor withered and vanished.

“It will be good for you,” Thor murmured into his throat. He was tracing the line of Loki's marking running along the side of his neck with his mouth. Loki sighed, arching into him, unwillingly remembering every last one of their encounters, when they touched and pushed and pulled at each other and yet feared, what exactly Loki was not sure. 

Thor's mouth was soft over his, insistent. Loki threaded his fingers through his hair, distantly marveling at the feeling, Thor's hair was finer than his, which seemed coarse and stiff by comparison. The same for his skin, which was so much smoother, so much harder as if frozen in place. Loki was a shapeshifter by nature, reveled in differences, in variety of shapes and forms, and yet he had never found the strangeness to be so profound and so enticing as he did now. Thor's eyelids were heavy, his breathing ragged, hands roaming over Loki's back, blunt fingernails digging into skin. He kissed like a man drowning, desperate and all teeth, as if he feared Loki would disappear into thin air, leaving only thin tendrils of steam and flowers of frost melting slowly over the stones.

Loki found himself in Thor's lap, winding legs around his hips, gripping his hair and pulling on it until he tilted his head back and Loki could kiss his throat, bite a path down his neck. Thor's hold on his hips was almost bruising, scorching, and suddenly he could not believe how they had managed to restrain themselves earlier. It was everything he wanted and more, unexpectedly, for he had always thought himself above such matters, especially considering his past misadventures. They still stood on opposing sides, technically, the captor and the captive, but the lines were too blurred, at least in relation to them both, to see clearly. Loki could not see clearly, not if his life depended on it, he heard his own breathing, felt Thor's pulse under his mouth, fast and fluttering, the world oddly skewed and limited, lost in the heat, in the fog clouding the mind and the air. 

Thor was the one to slow down, to stop, cradling Loki's face, brushing his finger along his lower lip, now purple and swollen. 

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked breathlessly. Loki considered hitting him, but settled for scraping his fingernails, claw-like sharp, along his shoulder and collarbone. Thor drew a shuddering breath and needed a few moments to find his words again. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” he tried again. 

Loki considered, shifting a little and drawing a little gasp from Thor. 

“Somebody could come in,” Thor's voice turned pleading. He looked wrecked already, shining with sweat, wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and dark. “Loki...”

“Shh,” Loki kissed him again, slower, gentler, drawing it out. Thor was making soft helpless noises under him, trembling slightly. His eyes went unfocused, and finally fluttered closed. Loki didn't want him conversant, didn't want him able to form words, to be this damned voice of reason, that they should not do this just because Loki was upset, that public sauna with its hard wooden benches and thin doors was a bad place. 

“My rooms,” Thor gasped, turning his head aside, loosening his fingers with a visible effort. “They're not far.” A hand on Loki's chest, separating them, shaking but certain. “Please.”

“Can't wait to see me on your bedsheets, can you?” Loki purred, trying to hide a flicker of uncertainty. Here, it was in a heat of the moment, clouded, blurry. Nothing which couldn't be blamed on a moment of weakness. There, it would be deliberate. Meaningful. “Well, if you're asking me so prettily.”

*

Loki detoured him twice on the way to his chambers to kiss him and Thor seriously considered finding the most comfortable nook of the corridor and staying there as long as necessary, basic common sense, dignity and comfort be damned. And yet he couldn't help thinking that for all his posturing, Loki was afraid. He had sensed it before, this uncertainty beneath a layer of confidence. Loki could and did easily drive him crazy with desire, but Thor did not want him just to prove a point, just to satisfy an urge. He wanted more, wanted him so badly that it frightened him sometimes, that he was able at all to desire someone so much. Loki veered between teasing and single-minded intent, and Thor went along willingly, allowed himself to be pushed.

The moment the door closed behind them, Thor was pressed against it, his wrists pinned over his head, Loki's clever fingers tugging at his shirt, the fabric unraveling under them with a sigh of magic. His mouth was on Thor's again, shockingly cold to the point of discomfort, his teeth scraping over Thor's lower lip. Suddenly he bit him, sharply, and smiled against his lips as if in apology. Thor struggled to get free, to free his hands, to touch, anywhere, everywhere. 

“Please,” he breathed. Loki was surprisingly strong when he wanted something, and he apparently wanted it very much. “Loki, please...”

“I believe you should save that for later,” Loki tore at his shirt for the last time and it fell apart around his fingers, smelling of magic. Under his cold fingertips Thor's stomach muscles clenched and he trembled, torn between discomfort and this strange sort of pleasure. Loki chuckled, never the one to ignore a weakness, dragged his nails along Thor's ribs, earning himself another gasp and a muffled curse. Thor was stronger and probably could free himself, could do anything he wanted, but could not summon the energy, dizzy, overwhelmed. 

“I'm waiting, then,” Thor managed to get out, even though anything containing consonants seemed to stick in his throat. He found it deeply unfair that he was naked, free for Loki to touch and map the edges and contours of his body, while Loki kept all his clothes on. Loki was teasing him mercilessly, running ice-cold lips over his neck, his chest, sliding lower and lower, rather successfully depriving Thor of higher thought processes.

“Loki,” he gasped, hands free finally, biting kiss pressed into the hollow of his hip. He felt a murmur of amusement against his skin. Loki's hair was smooth under his fingers, tangled now, long strands damp and unruly over Loki's back and shoulders, full of unraveling thin golden threads and scattered amber beads, glittering faintly in flickering candlelight. 

“You're surprisingly talkative,” Loki chuckled, his breath and tongue warming over Thor's skin, moving with agonizing slowness down his hipbone. 

Thor closed his eyes, feeling his legs nearly give way under him. It hovered on the edge of too much, hard wood of the door at his back, holding him up, Loki in front of him, moving up again, soft lips and sharp teeth, fingernails leaving faint red lines over his stomach and ribs. Thin fabric of his shirt rustled against his bare skin, infuriating. 

“You'll be the death of me,” he rasped, finding last shivers of strength, grabbing Loki's shoulder and pulling him up. Loki's face was flushed, lines in stark contrast over dark purple of his cheeks, he was breathing heavily, lips parted and red. He went very still when Thor's hands slipped under his shirt, pulling it finally over his head.

“Or you of me,” he whispered so softly that Thor felt it more than he heard it. He didn't protest this time when Thor tugged at his trousers, he left them behind with a touch of magic, allowed Thor to push him through the room, skin against skin. Beads from his hair slipped and fell, ringing quietly on the floor.

“I was afraid today,” Thor whispered hoarsely, pulling Loki down onto the bed, naked on his white sheets, warming under him. “For you, when I saw you hunting. In my mind's eye, I saw you die a dozen times.”

“Allow me to be insulted later.” Long legs wrapped around Thor, fingernails digging into his skin again, lips just next to his ear. There were fingers, sliding down, maddeningly slow. Thor had enough. He caught Loki's wrists in one hand, pinned them over his head, kissed him until he was out of breath, the smirk dissolved into something much more honest, almost pleading. It had gone on for long enough, too much, too drawn out, and Thor fully intended to show Loki what would come out of baiting him. 

He slid down, kissing down Loki's neck, biting delicate skin, mouthing along his collarbone, his markings. Loki was beautiful in a way a glacier was, sharp angles of bone and muscle, all sinewy strength. There were a few thin, white scars marring blue skin and Thor traced them, too, listening to ragged breaths and little noises Loki was making when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He looked up, saw Loki propped on his elbows, watching him with heavily lidded eyes, dark spots of color high on his cheeks, messy hair framing his narrow face, lips wet and parted. There was a path of dark, wiry hairs running down his stomach and when Thor breathed over it, Loki's voice suddenly hitched. Thor grinned into his skin, when strong fingers tugged and pulled at his hair, painfully, impatiently.

Loki tasted of salt, of sweat, with a strange, slightly acrid trace, smelled faintly of soap, of winter. Thor had to close his eyes, think about something else for a moment, already intoxicated by Loki, already on the edge, strung too high. He dug his fingers into Loki's thighs, felt him arch under him, moan something helplessly, urgently. His leg was suddenly over Thor's shoulder, his voice trembling, whispering curses, encouragements, Thor's name over and over, until he couldn't form words anymore, undone in a way Thor had never thought he was capable of. He didn't last for very long at all before his hips arched off the bed, and he cried out, choked on air, went still.

“It's been a while,” he said, apparently aiming for sarcasm and failing miserably. His hands, wound tightly in Thor's hair, loosened, fell to the sides. Thor sat up, licked his lips, and couldn't contain a smile, even though he still trembled, barely able to focus through the haze of his own desire. Loki was sprawled before him, panting, shameless in his nakedness. “I would like to point out I still hate you very much,” he said, voice hitching in his throat, and rose to kiss Thor's shoulder, then bit it, his breath suddenly freezing cold, gooseflesh rising on Thor's skin. His hands were on Thor's back, his chest, moving lower, and if they were still hesitant and shy, Thor didn't notice at all.

“Please,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “Loki--”

There were fingers on his mouth, in his mouth, silencing him, cold against his teeth. It seemed unfair that Loki recovered so quickly, smirk playing on his lips, grip of his knees when he straddled Thor's hips almost painful. His hands, splayed, shockingly cold at the beginning but warming up quickly, roamed over his ribs, hard flat lines of his stomach, lower, nails scraping over skin, every touch sending a shock of sensation. Thor tried to plead, to threaten, to bargain, but words abandoned him, collapsing on one another until all he could manage was a wordless groan. Loki's breathing was quicker again, his fingers impatient on Thor, marking invisible paths on him, tracing them over with his mouth. Thor dug his hands into the sheets, felt the fabric tear. Loki's smirk became wider, wicker. He slid down, kneeling between Thor's legs, licking a line down his stomach. Thor's curse broke in half when warm mouth closed around him, tongue cold, curious. 

He heard a muffled cry and realized it was his own. Loki was watching him, never looking away, intent, strangely and suddenly solemn. It took everything he had to hold on, not to thrust his hips up, not to pull at Loki's hair, force him to move quicker, not at this maddeningly slow pace. His hand threaded through Loki's black strands, lightly, eyes closed shut, involuntarily. The heat was oppressive, pressing on his skin, then shattered to pieces when cold hands wandered up his thighs, when only slightly warmer tongue slid down his length. His breath was impossibly loud in his ears, his heartbeat deafening, and he did not care how he sounded, did not care at all, when Loki chuckled deep in his throat and Thor nearly screamed, pulling him closer, hands clutched tight in his hair and trembling. Loki didn't seem to mind at all, clever fingers and clever tongue, unraveling him piece by piece. 

Loki was taking him apart, one part after another, breaking him down, slowly, methodically. It was too fast, too much. Thor nearly bit through his lip in attempt to contain another shout. Loki seemed to be in no hurry at all, heedless of Thor's hand digging into his shoulder, at his hair wound tightly around Thor's fingers. Thor's thighs were shaking, his whole body trembling, and he heard himself shouting, hoarsely, almost sobbing, not able to even form Loki's name anymore. 

There were hands on his face, gentle, feather-like touch, at odds with a satiated, satisfied smirk on Loki's lips. Thor pulled him close enough for a kiss, loosening his fingers, turning previous bruising grip into a caress. Loki allowed him, settling comfortably on his chest, lukewarm arms encircling him, strong, possessive. It was a wonder, having him so close, humming quietly a haunting tune, drawing aimless patterns on Thor's skin with a fingertip as if trying to retrace scar-like markings which crossed his own. 

“Will you stay?” Thor asked without thinking. Loki stilled for a second, then relaxed, snorting, but not without fondness. 

“Your bed is bigger than mine own. And my children already think me a fool.” His arms around Thor tightened. “You won't get rid of me so easily.”

Thor felt a smile curving his lips, greedy and fierce.

“Good.”

*

Thor woke up to warm sunlight on his face and familiar-unfamiliar weight pressed against him, embracing him. Loki seemed to have grown another pair of arms during the night and presumably fifteen miles of spare digits, and every last one of them was wrapped tightly around Thor's body. There was steady, cold breathing ghosting over on his neck, the edges of Loki's horns digging painfully into his chin. Loki's hair was everywhere, midnight black strands strewn about white sheets, over Thor's chest and shoulders, and he threaded his fingers through it, lightly, careful not to wake him up. It was dreadfully uncomfortable, somewhat stifling, especially for Thor, who was used to sleeping alone, sprawled on the wide bed, but he found he did not mind at all. 

There was a stillness in the air, a strange quality Thor would have found unnerving under any other circumstances. Loki was a creature unable to sit still, even when he was reading he would fidget, play with trinkets he wore, tug at his braid, as if there was chaos trapped beneath his skin, magic begging to be released, a shape fixed in place for a moment, but itching to be altered. And yet he lay unmoving, breathing quietly, tangled with and in Thor so tightly he was not sure anymore where any of them began and ended.

Minutes seeped by, unhurried, until Loki finally stirred, opened his eyes and tensed, as if unsure where he was, but then relaxed, smiling a little. His eyes went from blurry from sleep to focused, mischievous, in a span of a heartbeat. He stretched a bit, throwing long limbs over Thor's body, then impossibly managed to draw him even closer, kissed a delicate spot just behind his ear. 

“Good morning,” Thor murmured, when he managed to get his voice under control again. It was not what he expected, not at all, not Loki smiling into his neck, hands moving purposefully over his back, up, down his spine. He was testing his boundaries again, and nipped at skin with his teeth lightly, his leg nudging Thor's knees apart. Thor sighed, tried to catch his roaming hands, and choked a bit when Loki took his hand instead and licked him across the knuckles. “We should not...”

“Why not?” Loki's voice was barely over a whisper, amused, rumbling next to Thor's ear. There was a cold, wet touch along his earlobe, tongue then teeth, grazing the skin. “I have not heard you protesting last night.” Cold fingers ran along his ribs, in no hurry at all, ghosted over his hip, across the thigh. Thor shuddered, involuntarily arching under the touch. 

“It's late,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and not breathless with sudden desire. Memory of Loki's hands, Loki's mouth on him was sharp and vivid, sending shivers through him, fire along his spine. He heard a chuckle, low, a promise. Slow movement of lips along his neck, teeth on sensitive spots, the sound of his own ragged breathing. He tried to touch back, feel the naked skin under his fingertips, but there were strong fingers encircling his wrists, pinning them over his head.

“No,” Loki breathed, his lips brushing Thor's pulse point. “My turn.”

He rose, smirking at Thor's involuntary sound of protest at the loss of contact. His skin was glacial blue in the sun, last of the amber beads slipping from his hair, glittering. Despite his disheveled appearance, he looked every inch a prince when he straddled Thor's hips, knees on either side of him, movements deliberately slow. Thor kept still, set his jaw, refusing to be baited. He knew he would lose in the end, a sweet surrender, but intended to make the victory worthwhile.

“Aren't you going to do anything?” Thor said, aiming for impatient, but he sounded desperate more than anything. His hands were still pinned to the bed, Loki stretched over him, ends of his hair brushing Thor's face and chest. He still smelled of soap, faintly, and more of sweat, of himself, of Thor, studying him through narrowed eyes, as if deliberating, searching for weakness. His free hand moved across Thor's stomach muscles, nails leaving reddish streaks, sliding lower, but not quite enough. Thor heard himself making another strangled, unhappy sound deep in his throat, and then Loki's smirk lit up as if he came up with an idea. 

“Rest assured, I am,” he purred, curling his fingers, his breath a cold mist for a moment. There was ice forming over his skin, in his palm, and Thor tensed, half-remembered memories of blades and battlefields screaming in his bones, deeply ingrained instincts momentarily resurfacing. Loki put his other hand, the one free of ice, on his chest as if to calm him. There was nothing in his face to suggest murderous intent and Thor tried to relax, after all if Loki wanted him dead, he would have had ample occasion to kill him before. “Do not worry,” he whispered, showing him a bit of ice he had rolled between his fingers, gleaming and smooth-edged, only a couple inches long. Then, without warning, it was on sensitive skin on Thor's throat, melting into water in contact with body heat, cold streams trickling down his neck, sliding down, along tendons standing out sharply, in the hollow of Thor's collarbone. 

Thor had to marvel at Loki's uncanny ability to unravel his control in seconds. His world suddenly seemed limited, closed to his own ragged breathing, to heat low in his stomach, to cold weight on his hips, freezing wet touch marking paths on his chest. He threw his head back, closed his eyes shut tightly and cursed, reaching blindly for Loki, whose laughter rang a wicked sound in his ears. Loki swatted his hand away easily, crawled over him, heavy, comfortable, tongue drawing lines in the wake of slowly melting ice chunk. It should not feel so good, overwhelmingly, should not drag choked noises from his throat, reduce him to begging in words fragmented and torn.

Somehow he managed to catch Loki's hands, or rather Loki let him, crooked, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. They were a mess, both of them, wrecked, breathless, trembling, kissing until they drew blood and Thor wasn't sure anymore who was teasing whom. Thor wondered how much of Loki's seduction was a game, a façade to cover his own desire, because he melted under Thor's kisses quickly enough, his mouth soft, pleading, and it was both heady and terrifying feeling. He couldn't play this game himself, there was nothing left in him but honesty, desire whispered into Loki's skin, over and over.

Maybe Loki played this game with an intention of losing. After all, he seemed to have got exactly what he wanted. Thor ended flat on his back, Loki sitting next to him, hair damp and plastered to his cheeks and forehead with sweat, all sprawled limbs and lazy smile, wiping his hands on the bedsheets. 

“Good morning,” he purred, smoothing a loose strand of Thor's hair.

“If that's your idea of a good morning...”

“Why yes, it is.” Loki's smile was absolutely unashamed. “I was under the impression you liked it quite a lot, too.”

Thor snorted, too boneless and spent to come up with a response. 

“Do not lie to me.” Loki moved closer, suddenly almost predatory and for all his exhaustion, Thor felt himself stirring under the heavy gaze. “You loved every moment.” His hand was on Thor's lips, suddenly, cold and unmoving. “Say it.”

“Aye, I did.” Thor could not look away, the words heavy and clumsy on his tongue.

“You love what I do to you,” Loki's voice was low, rasping, almost a whisper. 

There was something else, something else like love buried deep in his chest, aching, fluttering with his heartbeat, but he could not find words, could not draw enough breath to say it aloud. It tangled and tore at his throat, unspoken, only half-formed yet, but struggling to get free. He was afraid of its sound, of its taste in his mouth, he who could face dragons and monsters laughing, who had never known how fear tasted like.

“How could I not,” he said instead, chuckling, though even to his own ears it sounded strained. “You are so clever and beautiful after all.”

“And you still give me platitudes,” Loki laughed, kissing him, just a quick press of lips. “You are so much more interesting inarticulate.”

“I shall bear your barbed tongue anyway.” Thor smiled against his mouth, pushed himself upright. Tired muscles protested, but judging from the amount of sunlight, he was dreadfully late for every one of his activities for that day. “I have no choice, haven't I?”

“No.” Loki returned his smile, sharply. “Not at all.”


	6. Chapter 6

The gardens were louder than usual, full of laughter and cheering, excited voices carrying clearly. Loki tried in vain to quench his nervousness. His children weren't in their chambers, an obvious choice considering it was well past noon, the day clear and crisply cold. The gardens were a shock of yellow and red, leaves whirling in the wind, crackling under his feet. He had never expected the autumn in Asgard to be so beautiful, all in burnished golds and browns, smelling of dried grass, of dried leaves and earth, of apples hanging heavy on tree branches. It seemed so different, somehow, the edges dulled, the sharpness diminished, as if the world was half-asleep already and restless at the same time.

Thor kept several paces behind him, his embarrassment only halfway obscuring his radiance. He was almost shining, bright and golden, and Loki could hardly keep his eyes off him, keep his hands away from his skin. It was hopeless, foolish and potentially dangerous, not to mention embarrassing, but he saw no way out of this, of this sudden rush of affection, of muted desire. He could still smell Thor on himself despite taking a bath, could still smell him on his skin, in his hair, as if Thor had managed to crawl under the glamour and flesh, mark him and claim him. The thought was not entirely displeasing. It went both ways, filled him with a surge of possessiveness, anxious desire to own and keep to himself, even though Thor could never belong to him that way. It was nice to pretend for a while, though, look at Thor and see red marks he had left on delicate skin of his neck, on his red and bitten lips. 

“We could still leave,” he heard Thor murmur behind him.

“Your mother would be inconsolable,” Loki summoned a smile he was sure was quite desperate.

“She'll know.”

“Please,” he scoffed softly, not going to admit to Thor that he was terrified of Frigga in this very moment as well. “She probably knows already. Avoiding her won't make it easier.”

“Do you want to tell people?” Thor stopped abruptly, gripped his shoulder. “Do you want me to tell them? I can.” His face was pale, with dark spots of color high on his cheeks. “If you want.”

“No, that won't be necessary,” Loki said softly, touching the hand on his shoulder until Thor loosened his fingers. “I don't think it would be a good idea. People will talk, though.”

He didn't think Thor realized he was giving him a way out of this whole affair, as much as it would hurt. Now, under the sky, out of the bedchamber's warmth and Thor's embrace he could think clearly. Making it public would be a disaster for the heir for the throne. Thor had to be aware of that, but perhaps chose to ignore the implications. It would be just like him. It was up to Loki, then, to ensure it would not happen. Loki didn't want to think what Odin's reaction would be to a Frost Giant bedding his son. The results would not be pretty.

“Let them talk,” Thor growled quietly, his fingers brushing Loki's hand one last time before he started walking again, deliberately slowly. Loki found it quite endearing that Thor was entirely willing to face the gossipers of the whole Asgard, but was reluctant to meet his own mother. And yet he could not help a cold knot of anxiety in his stomach. They would be lucky if gossip was the worst thing to happen.

The voices were much louder now, the dull sounds of wood meeting wood barely audible under them, under excited cheers and laughing. Nothing like that had ever happened since Loki was there. There usually were only quiet conversations, soft singing, gentle plucking on harp's strings, just the women passing their time, and Loki knew that many would look at Frigga with her entourage and see weakness. There were many who would mistake gentleness for a lack of strength.

They rounded a corner and Loki froze, his mind not quite processing the sight before him. Thor whistled softly.

“I was not expecting that,” Loki said at last.

“Well, neither was I,” Thor followed the movement of a wooden training sword with his eyes. “Though we probably should have.”

“Yeah.” Loki snapped out of his revelry and forced his body to move. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Because all I needed was a headstrong daughter with a penchant of hitting me over the head to have weapons training.”

Hel's training sword was almost as big as she was. She made a wobbly thrust, flailing madly. Freyja pretended that it managed to go through her defenses, dropped her weapon, clutched her side theatrically and fell to the ground laughing. The ladies watching them fight burst into giggles again. Even the nearby Valkyrie cracked a smile. Hel smiled, too, a wide, toothy smile, wisps of her pale hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Loki felt something constricting in his chest, a bit like joy and a lot like sorrow. It seemed like ages since he had last seen his daughter like that, happy and careless, a child.

Her expression darkened for a split second when she saw them, and then her smile turned mischievous. Freyja followed her gaze and a moment later she smirked as well. It took the rest of the women mere seconds to notice them. Loki heard hushed whispers, stifled giggles. Next to him Thor's face turned a very interesting shade of red. 

“How nice of you to finally join us,” Frigga said, walking to them, glorious in a flowing, dark orange gown, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. She looked her son over, lips pursed a little. Thor suddenly seemed very interested in the ground beneath his feet.

“I am sorry, Mother,” he mumbled. 

“That's quite all right, dear,” she smiled, patting his cheek gently. Her gaze shifted to Loki, who surprisingly felt himself reddening as well. He resisted an urge to squirm. “And how are you?”

“Quite well, my Lady.” His voice didn't manage to come out as clear and even as he had intended, but it had to do. “I see you have been taking care of my daughter.”

Hel and Freyja were mock-sparring again, the warrior goddess gently correcting Hel's stance, her hold on the grip. The girl seemed small, fragile, and Loki suddenly felt fear gripping his heart, fear he had never wanted to acknowledge. There was a wide, cruel world outside, one where there may not be a father or a brother to protect her from cutting blades and cutting words. One day he would look at her and see a woman, not a girl, who would walk away from him, who would never let him stop her.

She would probably hit him for saying something like that aloud.

“I don't see her being a swordfighting prodigy,” he murmured, when another clumsy riposte sent the training sword flying from Hel's hand.

“At least she seems to find it entertaining.” There was a fond smile tugging at Frigga's lips. “Besides, 'tis useful to know how to handle a blade.”

“Aye,” he smiled back slightly, noticing not for the first time telltale calluses on her long, elegant hands. “I am no fighter myself, though.”

“No need for false modesty,” she scoffed, half-serious, leading them to one of the benches. She sat down, her skirts pooling around her, golden threads woven into the fabric shimmering in the sun. She motioned for them to do the same, but Thor remained standing, pacing a little. Loki could read his face like an open book and realized he liked him flustered, cheeks pink, his hair still tousled.

“Oh, I can handle myself well enough,” Loki sat back, trying not to stare at Thor too obviously. “I am no match for the likes of Freyja or you, I think. Or Thor, for that matter.”

Frigga smiled. “I can defend myself if the need arises, but I have no passion for it, unlike some.”

Thor looked somehow indignant, but said nothing. After several minutes Freyja called an end to sparring, seeing that Hel could barely lift her sword anymore. It seemed hardly fair, considering that Freyja was barely out of breath, with not a strand of hair out of place, and she was the one to wear a heavy gown. Loki found it not surprising at all that her clothes were sewn in a way to allow her to move with a sword. 

Hel walked to them, still able to convey her annoyance with a look despite her face shining with sweat. She never acknowledged Thor, but went to Loki at once, climbed onto his lap and hugged him tightly, glaring at anybody who as much as looked in their direction. She, just like Loki, never liked to share.

“Are you still angry with me?” He asked, hugging her back. Suddenly he felt guilty for disappearing without a word, even though he knew that Hel was perfectly safe with her brother, and probably realized perfectly where he had gone. Fenrir grew even quicker under warm Asgardian sun and now could look most of the warriors in the eye without craning his neck. 

“A little,” she said. “Have you seen Jormungandr?”

“Not in a while. You know how he gets.”

She nodded, sighing. 

“I worry about him. He's so stubborn sometimes.”

“It will be all right,” Loki told her without feeling very confident himself. “It always is.”

“It has been very often lately, hasn't it?”

“Yeah,” he gathered her closer, for the warmth and reassurance. “He's growing, that's all.”

“He's growing too much,” she said very quietly.

Unwillingly he remembered Jormungandr like he had seen him for the last time, and realized that almost a week had passed. His scales were dull and lifeless, eyes cloudy and blue, thick coils heaped one upon another on dried, brittle grass in a remote corner of Frigga's gardens. He kept growing, faster and faster, and was almost as thick as Thor's bicep now, much too long already to fit comfortably in Loki's chambers anymore. 

“We should find him,” he said, trying not to let worry color his voice. “Tomorrow perhaps, he should be done by then. You know how he hates someone seeing him like that.”

She nodded, once, and released him. He brushed her hair off her forehead.

“Do not worry, kitten,” he said quietly. “This frown is unbecoming. Weren't you angry with me?”

She smiled faintly, drawing away, sitting beside him on the bench with her legs curled underneath her. “I was, and you owe me,” she said. “You will teach me three spells or I shall remain angry.”

“You drive a hard bargain, daughter mine,” he smiled, glad that she allowed herself to be distracted. “I believe, though, that my transgression does not warrant such a big compensation. One spell of my choosing.”

“Two, and I choose.”

“Don't you remember the last time when I let you choose?”

She snorted, unapologetic. “They managed to get rid of the fish in the end.”

*

_Father?_

“Hello, little one,” Loki said quietly as he stepped into the clearing. He could barely see the ground from under the enormous body coiled tightly into a meaningless pattern, heaps of dull green scales. What was left of yellowed grass crackled under Loki's boots, under his son's body when he shifted. Red eyes, once more clear and lucid, looked into his when Jormungandr raised his head weakly. Loki had to pick his way around the coils to touch his head, avoiding the places where the earth was ripped and stones upturned. Jormungandr's body was nearly as thick as his waist now, his head longer than his arm. 

_I appreciate the sentiment,_ the serpent's mental voice turned dry. He bumped Loki on the chest with his nose and nearly knocked him over. _Sorry,_ he added sheepishly. _I am not used to this._

Loki put a hand on the serpent's forehead looming high over him. The scales were dry and smooth, warm from the sun. “It's all right,” he said, summoning a smile which felt brittle and strained. “Are you well?”

 _Better,_ Jormungandr lowered his head until it was nearly level with Loki's. Dry tongue flickered out and touched his cheek curiously. _I do not know what is happening to me, Father._

“I am not sure, either,” Loki whispered. Jormungandr shifted and wound a part of his body loosely around Loki, a warm circle of flesh, as if he tried to imitate the way he could wrap himself around Loki's shoulders mere months earlier. Loki tried to estimate how much the serpent had grown, but kept losing track of coils laying one upon another. Barely a few hours must have passed since he had finished shedding his skin and yet he seemed to have grown twice or thrice since then.

 _Are you not, Father._ Jormungandr hissed loudly, fangs glittering in the sun. _Were you not the one to make me?_

Loki grabbed his jaw, a futile gesture more than anything. “I was,” he said, his voice broken. “I am sorry, my son.” 

Jormungandr kept very still, his eyes unmoving. Only his tongue moved in and out nervously from between his jaws. _You played the maker,_ he mocked. _And yet you do not know!_

“I was a fool,” Loki said through gritted teeth. He felt the serpent moving, tightening around him, and it didn't feel safe or familiar anymore. “I was a fool to dabble in magics I did not understand fully, but I will never regret bringing you into this world. Any of you.”

 _What about me?_ The words still cut like a knife. _Will I regret being born from magic?_

“If there is anything in my power--”

_Enough! Enough of your magic. You had to make us this way, didn't you? Because you could. You had to prove it, your power, prove it to yourself and to others, and we are the ones to pay the price._

Loki wanted to scream that it was not true. He wanted to be able to deny it.

 _Look at you._ Jormungandr's face was only inches from his. _Why couldn't you give us your own flesh, your own blood? Carry and bear us, pay the real price of your own body. Why couldn't you give me hands. Why couldn't you give me a real voice?_ His tongue touched Loki's cheek, tasted the wetness and salt and ice. _Why can I not cry, Father?_

Loki took one shaking breath, than another, his hands still gripping his son's head with trembling fingers, little flakes of ice falling from his face, the glamour shattered and torn to pieces, peeling from his face like another layer of skin. “I am so sorry,” he choked out. “I love you so much. I did nothing to deserve you. Please, believe me, though you have no reason to do so.”

 _I believe you._ There was nothing of mercy in Jormungandr's voice. _Who knows you better than we do, after all._

“I was lonely,” Loki said hoarsely. “I was different, and afraid. I wanted something good, something bright to see the world alongside me, something of my own I could love. And you are...” He had to stop, draw another shuddering breath, Jormungandr's coils heavy around him. “Even though I made you from my blood and magic, you are so much more than me,” he finished in a whisper. 

_Oh, Father,_ the whisper in his mind rustled like scales on dry leaves. _I could never hate you, whatever you did._ Jormungandr uncoiled slowly, settled the upper part of his body in a wide ring on the grass, lay his head on the ground. Loki sat down after a moment, leaning his back against him. He always liked how Jormungandr's scales looked after shedding his skin, bright and smooth, and it was always a relief to see him feeling better.

 _I feel nervous,_ Jormungandr admitted after a moment. _Restless. This place suits me ill. It's even worse than Jotunheim was. At least it's warmer, but how long can I sleep here in the grass, Father? Until these gardens won't contain me anymore?_

“I will find you a way out,” Loki said thickly. “Do you think you are still growing?”

Jormungandr hesitated before answering. _I am not sure, Father. But I think so, yes. There's this itch beneath my skin, even though I have just shed it, and it would not go away._ He was silent for a long moment. _This place suffocates me. But I hate the thought of leaving you alone._

“I won't let you...”

 _This is not about you letting me do anything, Father._ Jormungandr's voice was gentle, but rang of steel. _I am not a child anymore. You have to let me go sooner or later._

“Even if that would mean watching you walk away, alone?”

_Is it not what Laufey had to do? You must have known that children grow up someday and leave._

“Do you want to leave?”

 _No._ The hiss was full of distress. _But I think I must._

Loki sat there, hands trembling, clinging to his son, and let the sun melt the ice when his tears froze.

*

He talked to Frigga, who understood and was the one to convince the All-father. Loki suspected that he agreed primarily because having a thirty feet long serpent in his wife's gardens didn't seem to be a very appealing prospect for the future. He knew he should be happy about one of his children walking away from this golden cage, free. He could not, he could not bear the thought of his son alone in the world, far from his siblings, far from him. He could not help thinking, could not help hoping, that Odin would refuse. It was ridiculous, and selfish, but he wished desperately for it nonetheless, for a way to keep his son with them. He looked at Hel sometimes, silently, and saw the same wordless yearning. 

Odin would never allow Jormungandr to return to Jotunheim, and the serpent wasn't keen of living back there himself. Loki's kin would never allow him to come to harm, but thinly-masked contempt the other Jotnar held for Loki and his offspring was discouraging enough. They argued about it, incessantly, with Loki shouting and Jormungandr refusing to speak to him for hours afterward. It made him want to howl, to tear down the walls and gates and just flee, run away, feel the ground beneath his feet and wind in his ears again. It would solve nothing, nothing at all, when he could offer his son no real explanation for his existence, no justification for creating life, that wouldn't be unfair and selfish.

 _I need time away,_ Jormungandr told him. _Away from you. I am afraid I am nothing but what you made me. I need to see whether it is true._

“What would you do, if it is?” Loki asked then, mouth dry. 

_I do not know._ Jormungandr hissed unhappily, his body curled tightly on the grass in his clearing. _How can I know, if you do not? If I am more than a beast made of seidr and wishes._

Fenrir whined, his tail low, drawing close to his brother's scales. He kept silent during the arguments, offered no opinion, asked no questions Loki saw burning in his eyes, hard questions that had no satisfactory answers. In some respect it was harder than Jormungandr's unrelenting resentment.

“You know that's not true,” Hel said, sitting high among green coils, her eye reddened from all the tears she would never admit to spilling. “You're being unreasonable. Why do you hate us so?”

 _I do not hate you, little one,_ Jormungandr's voice was quieter, gentler. _You will see one day._

“I know Father is a fool,” she said angrily. “'Tis no reason to leave.”

 _It is not because of him. Not entirely._ Jormungandr let out a low hiss and shifted to make Hel more comfortable. _You will understand. I hope it will never break you._

Loki let the words wash over him. He knew he deserved every last one.

 _I shall go to Midgard,_ Jormungandr said after long, heavy silence. _I need a dark and quiet place to grow, to consider, and no enemies of our grandfather to disturb me. They would never dare attack the Earth._

“Why there?” Loki heard his voice shaking and did not care at all. “This too-small backwater place where no one would hear your voice?”

_Yes. I do not think you get a say in this, Father._

“Of course. The decision is yours,” Loki could barely force words out of his throat. 

_I do not hate you._

“It would be easier,” Loki whispered, “if you did.”

*

The rocky shore was silent and still, freezing cold under gray skies. The sea raged, white-tipped waves crashing onto the beach, dark and opaque. There was nothing but the wind, the water, rough stones and dark line of a faraway forest on the horizon. The Aesir who served both as Loki's entourage and overseers were garish in comparison, fluttering steel butterflies, too bright and out of place with their shining armor, their gleaming weapons. Thor shone like a sun among them, a precious gem in a pile of gaudy glass beads, still an incongruity against this bleak landscape. They stayed behind several paces, allowing Loki and his children a semblance of privacy.

Loki's boots made a crunching sound on the small rocks. He kept silent through all the journey to the Bifrost's entrance, never uttered a word since they came out of blinding swirl of colors that marked walking the Rainbow Bridge across the realms. How different it was from his narrow, hidden paths, dark enclosed passages in small cracks between worlds where one slipped from one place to another quiet, unseen, and yet it was glorious in its loudness, its sheer power utterly unashamed of itself. 

The wind chilled him to the bone even though Loki had never felt cold on his skin and thought it unpleasant.

“Such a dark, gray place,” Hel murmured, taking his hand, squeezing his fingers. “A sad place. I liked the Winter back home better.”

“Do you remember the lights, kitten?”

“Of course,” she scoffed and crooked her fingers with a breath of magic, winding a faint illusion of green aurora over her upturned palm. He knew she did it to reassure herself as much as him, this faint flicker of hope, ultimately futile. Jormungandr raised his head and hissed at them. His movements were tightly controlled, nervous. After his last shedding his once bright green scales took a more subdued hue, a brownish, mottled green. Loki brushed his fingers over small hard scales behind his head and felt him trembling.

 _It will do,_ Jormungandr said. _I shall find a better place once I tire of it._

Fenrir let out a miserable whine, scrambling close to his brother. Hel joined them after a moment's hesitation, her hands grabbing the wolf's fur tightly, her face hidden in the serpent's scales. Jormungandr coiled around them protectively, hissing quietly something not meant for Loki's ears. Loki himself stood apart, watching the sea, the clouds hanging low and heavy over his head.

Finally Jormungandr disentangled himself from his siblings, slithered quietly to Loki, wrapping his coils loosely around his legs. His body felt cold, hard, heavy. 

“Will you forgive me?” Loki heard himself asking, unable to stop the words from spilling. 

Jormungandr hesitated. _One day, maybe. I love you, Father, but it has nothing to do with love._

“Never doubt we love you, too,” Loki said through constricted throat. “Be well, my son.”

 _I shall._ Jormungandr touched his tongue to Loki's cheek one last time and slowly uncoiled himself, slithering across the beach, one brown shadow among others. _Farewell,_ they heard, a distant echo in the mind, when gray waters closed over the serpent's head, hid his body from sight, never stopped crashing on the shore.

*

The autumn rains turned to hail for the whole week. Relentless pounding on the roofs and windows followed Thor everywhere he went, piles of quickly-melting ice littered the courtyard and the training rings, making paths slippery and treacherous. The servants cursed the unusual weather, the einherjar wandered the halls and complained that they were unable to train, and Frigga's ladies in waiting were forced to take refuge indoors, lamenting the ruined flowers and trees in the gardens. The smell of seidr hung low in the air. 

There was only one person Thor wanted to see and he was nowhere to be found, door to his chambers closed and uninviting. At first Thor didn't want to impose on the family's grief. Then he found himself cornered by a quietly menacing wolf and equally menacing girl.

“We need to talk,” Hel said, the healthy half of her face locked in an expression of distress. Her brother was silent, standing behind her, blocking the corridor. He could almost look Thor in the eye without craning his neck, a mountain of gray fur and muscle. Thor had seen smaller bears.

“I am listening,” Thor said, a little surprised. Hel had never sought contact with him before and he could not help a stab of worry. 

“Our father likes you,” Hel said, matter-of-fact. “It's beyond me why, but he does. He would not leave his room, would not eat, would not talk. Go to him. Do something.” There was a shade of emotion in her flat voice. “He would not let us help,” she finished in a whisper.

“I would have come in an instant had I felt welcome,” Thor said, guilt heavy in his chest.

She snorted, but did not seem to blame him. “Typical,” she sighed. “He would never ask. Will you come?”

“Of course,” he said, his duties momentarily forgotten. 

He had only rarely the occasion to see Loki's rooms, but while they had always been in disarray, now they seemed like an aftermath of a hurricane. There was clothing strewn everywhere, and scattered books, loose pages torn or whole, and broken glass cracking beneath his boots. There was one clean spot near the empty fireplace, presumably Fenrir's, and narrow path leading to the other rooms. The door to Hel's bedroom was open, the chamber visible from behind it immaculately clean. The other door was closed shut. Thor knocked on it lightly, wary of magical traps, but nothing happened save for mild buzzing of seidr under his fingers.

“Loki?”

No response.

“We shall leave you to it,” Hel said curtly from across the room. Fenrir whined, low, half-angry. “Otherwise we could do something truly regrettable.”

They left on silent feet. Thor lowered himself to the floor, trying to avoid glass shards, leaned on the wall next to the door. It was very quiet save for the sound of his own breathing. “Loki, please.”

“Why are you here? Go away.”

“Loki, open the door.”

“I appreciate your sympathy,” came the answer, choked, as if forced through gritted teeth. “I do hope you are not offering me pity. Nevertheless, I want neither, not right now. Please, leave.”

“I shan't.” Thor allowed his head to fall back, his muscles to relax. “I can be patient.”

There was silence on the other side of the door for a long while. Then there were footsteps, and creaking of hinges, and familiar smell of frost and winter. Loki was paler than usual, even in his Jotunn form, and his hair hung in unwashed clumps around tired face. He wore no jewelry, no gems or chains around his horns, and looked older, fragile. Before he knew it, Thor was on his feet, gathering Loki into his arms, a cold, limp shape. It seemed a small eternity before Loki sighed and put his arms around Thor, embracing him back.

“Aren't you a stubborn one,” he murmured into his shoulder. 

“Of course I am,” Thor dragged his fingers lightly through Loki's hair, combing out the tangles. “And you have been neglecting yourself terribly. I am sorry it took me so long.”

“It's fine,” Loki drew even closer, face hidden in the crook of Thor's neck. “I still do not need your pity.” He fell silent for a second. “Your arms are fine, though,” he finished very quietly.

“Take whatever you need.”

“Fool,” Loki said quietly. He made no move to draw away.

They stood in silence for several minutes, Loki's breath a lukewarm tingling on the skin of Thor's neck and shoulder. When he finally released him, reluctant, there was a faint smile tugging at pale lips. Thor kissed his forehead lightly, his fingers curling around Loki's hand.

“My children called you here, didn't they?” Loki sighed. “I should have known. They are probably right, though. I am rather useless sitting around like that.” He disentangled himself from Thor reluctantly, combed his matted hair with his fingers with distaste. “No wonder Hel could not stand me. I think I need a bath.”

“I shall not argue,” Thor murmured, which earned him a smack on the head.

*

The bathroom was a mess, but thankfully this time Thor refrained from commenting. Loki pulled off his clothes and left them in a pile on the floor, slipping into the bath with relief. Thor took off his shoes and sat on the tiles next to the bath, disturbing the water with a sole of his foot, though he hissed and grimaced at the temperature. He toyed absentmindedly with Loki's hair, rough fingers on his scalp sending shivers down his spine.

“I am sure your son will be well,” Thor said after a moment, his hand moving to Loki's neck, brushing along the collarbone. Loki sighed, his eyes fluttering closed, and tilted his head back, letting it rest on the tiles, his neck and throat exposed. Thor made a soft sound behind him and leaned down to kiss him. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“I was under the impression it was working,” Loki opened his eyes in time to catch Thor's half-smile. In fact he wished for a distraction himself, but as usual Thor was too damn conscientious for that. “You could come down here.”

“I would freeze in seconds, I'm afraid.” Thor was back to playing with his hair, delicately smoothing the disheveled strands. “However you are planning to test my restraint, I am not laying a finger on you until you ate and slept.”

“Try not to promise things you will not be able to deliver,” Loki murmured, his eyelids already dropping, his body boneless under callused hands massaging his shoulders. “Don't stop.”

Thor mumbled something in assent, reaching for soap. He started lathering Loki's hair with maybe excess care, dragging his fingers through its whole length, blunt fingernails digging lightly into scalp. “I told you,” Loki muttered, trying for cross and failing. “You cannot keep your hands off me anyway.” He tilted his head to allow Thor better access, felt hot breath on his neck, teeth grazing delicate skin. 

“What you do to me...” Thor whispered and pulled away, his hands retreating from Loki's hair. He could not stop a sound of protest and heard a strained chuckle in response. The water was blissfully freezing on his heated cheeks when he dunked his head under to rinse the soap out. When he came up again, he caught sight of Thor, who was slightly flushed, his eyes bright. 

“What were you saying?”

“Nothing.” Thor caught his wrist and pulled, helping him out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around him. His hands were almost impossibly hot, running along his sides, drawing aimless patterns on his back. Loki could not help stepping closer, pressing himself to him, wet skin and all. Thor was murmuring nonsense into his hair, kissing a sensitive spot behind his ear. There was an almost inaudible gasp and flinch when Loki slipped his hands under his shirt, muscles trembling under his cold, dripping fingertips. Hands on his hips tightened, almost painful, pressing him closer, and suddenly Thor was kissing him, hard, messy, teeth clicking together. 

“I don't know what to say to you,” Thor whispered after pulling away, his breathing quick and shallow. “Especially when you distract me so easily.”

Loki was reluctant to move, to draw away from Thor's warmth, this foreign, slightly uncomfortable sensation he could not help returning to. 

“Is that what you do? Seeking refuge in the flesh?” Thor's face turned solemn. Loki froze, suddenly afraid to look up. “It is unkind, in a way,” Thor said gently, fingers still moving up and down Loki's neck, his shoulder.

“And yet you go along,” Loki hissed, grabbing Thor's hand hard, almost violently, half-wishing to extinguish this warmth between his own stone-cold fingers. 

“I do.” Thor regarded him with a look which made him seem unreadable, complicated. “You know,” he stumbled over his words suddenly, steady eyes darting away for a second, “my feelings for you...”

“Don't,” Loki said, voice tight, stepping back half a step again, never letting go of Thor's hand. “Please, don't. For your sake and mine. Everything I touch, breaks. Don't do this to yourself.”  
Thor was in his space again, soft fabric of his shirt brushing Loki's skin. Loki repressed the urge to hide in his arms again, try once more for easy comfort.

“That is my choice, and mine alone,” Thor's voice was quiet for once, forceful, and Loki wanted him so much it hurt, and yet could not bring himself to reach for him. 

“I can refuse,” he whispered, a lie so transparent that Thor did not seem to be fooled even for a second.

“Would you?”

Loki dropped Thor's hand, grabbed his shoulders, dug his nails into flesh, not caring for red welts he left in golden skin. “No.”

“I would hate to let you go,” Thor whispered, close and around him again, suffocating warmth and light. Loki felt a tendril of frost running across his cheek, stilled it with an effort of will, refused to spill any more tears. It was enough, more than enough, that Thor had seen him cry once, and that his seidr was running wild, freezing the rain, relentless sound of hail hitting the windows wearing his nerves thin.

“I am here, then” he said almost against his will. Thor chuckled, weak and strained, but with a current of genuine happiness running underneath, though Loki almost heard the unspoken question – for how long. He did not want to dwell on the answer, could not find one even if asked. 

“And I am glad of you,” Thor said into his hair and pulled away with a sigh. “Come, let's find you something to eat.”

Loki picked up a relatively clean tunic off the floor and slipped it over his head, still reluctant, but Thor's grip on his arm was insistent. “I think Hel left something in here,” he said, peering into the living room. There was a bowl of fruit on the table that still looked quite fresh, and half of a loaf of bread wrapped in a piece of cloth. Loki collected them and swept the coach carelessly, dropping several books and articles of clothing on the floor, then sprawled on it and started picking at grapes under Thor's insistent glare. After a moment's hesitation Thor sat on the edge of the coach, lifting Loki's feet and putting them in his lap. Loki made a halfhearted swatting gesture at him, which Thor promptly ignored.

“In spite of what my daughter might have said, I didn't try to starve myself,” Loki murmured, picking an apple and biting into it. It was heavy and sweet, smelling of golden sunlight on dried grass, of autumn. Thor eyed him suspiciously and poked at bony knee. Loki repressed a childish urge to kick him.

“You had me worried,” Thor said, absentmindedly brushing his fingers over Loki's bare calf. The caress was soothing, or would have been, if Loki's nerves had not been still on fire, and every touch had not woken a shiver low in his spine. 

“I am sorry,” Loki said, his words only half a lie. “Understand, we used to keep mainly to ourselves in Jotunheim. Well, ourselves and our kin. The others weren't exactly fond of any of us.”

“Why? Because of your magic?”

Loki laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. He tried very hard not to think about the past, only remember the good parts, but in vain, especially during the previous week, when everything reminded him of his son, now alone in the vast gray sea. 

“We are wise enough not to consider seidr a shameful pursuit,” he snorted. “But you see me. I am small for a Jotunn. Weak. An unworthy child of a worthy parent.” He sighed. “ It's not unheard of that a child kills its parent in childbirth, and Laufey already had two strong sons when he decided to have me. He took a risk that never paid off and many resented me for never living up to the promise.”

“The king allowed them to treat you so?” There was anger welling up in Thor's voice, his fingers suddenly tightening around Loki's ankle.

“When one of them was his own mate?” Loki's answer was sharper than he intended. “My other parent, Farbauti, was the first one to speak up that I deserved to be killed, exposed to the Winter. Laufey never listened, though.” He fell silent for a moment. “Maybe he should have. It doesn't matter now.”

“Don't say such things! What kind of parent would kill his own child?”

“There is little need in Jotunheim to keep those who cannot fend for themselves. In the end, my father almost killed Farbauti over me and banished him, and never treated me as anything less than a prince, even though it cost him respect of our people.” He covered Thor's hand with his own until it relaxed, laced their fingers together. “Understand, ever since the loss of the Casket Laufey's position had been... precarious. There were voices against him, and more than voices, and having a child like me only made them worse. You are lucky my father is clever and patient. You would not want someone like Farbauti, or Thrym, or Skadi on the throne of Jotunheim. They hate the Aesir, all of you, and not in a reasonably paranoid way.”

Thor was silent, and Loki thought how different it must have been for him, the eldest son, the perfect warrior who fought and laughed like a thunderstorm, this golden-haired godling with more strength and kindness than sense, but loved nonetheless.

“Laufey would never let those fools harm him, though,” Loki said, his mouth curving up a little. “None of us. In the end, when the Winter reigns, your kin is all you have left between you and black cruel ice. But after I surpassed my first seidr teacher, Skadi, who hated me with a passion, and when things were falling apart between me and Angrboda, I was alone. I was afraid to have children of my own body, ones who would be in line for the throne, ones who would share my blood and weakness. So I made them of earth and magic. Different from the Jotnar, so nobody would hate them like they hated me.” He laughed bitterly. “See how well that worked out.”

“I have seen you,” Thor said, voice gentle, “how you act, how you speak around your children, and I think none of them could wish for a better parent.”

“What good is of me, when I cannot protect them from their own flesh? I toyed with forces nobody should touch. If I had been the one to suffer the consequences--”

“Hush,” Thor murmured, smoothing a strand of stray hair off his face. 

Loki clicked his jaw shut, swallowed sharp-edged, bitter words swelling in his throat, tearing at his heart, well-deserved accusations. Thor was touching his hair again, separating damp, tangled strands with tenderness surprising for someone so impatient. Loki drew a shuddering breath, then another, realizing with sudden clarity that he would have to live with this guilt, this mark of failure.

“Every child leaves its parent in the end,” Thor said quietly, his eyes soft for once, thoughtful. 

“I know!” Loki spat, sitting up, jerking his head away from Thor's hands. “It does not matter. He's away, and alone, and it's my fault only.”

“You couldn't have known,” Thor pleaded, catching his wrist, pulling him closer despite his strained sounds of protest. It seemed too easy, this false sense of comfort to be found in the arms of another, a soothing lie. Thor smelled of apples, faintly of soap and oil, the red fabric of his shirt was still wet, and his hands trembled slightly where they settled on Loki's shoulders.

“I should have,” Loki whispered into his chest. He felt himself falling apart, piece by piece, chips of ice flying off something that had seemed unbreakable. Thor murmured soothing nonsense into his hair, hands on his shoulders and back, drawing him closer and closer, like a moth to the flame.

“They will never hate you.”

“Not as much as I hate myself,” Loki whispered and hoped that Thor never caught his words.

Thor's arms around him were steady, insistent, with no apparent intention of letting him go in the near future. Loki heard a quiet clink of the bowl being put on the floor, then he was being pulled closer, his head on Thor's chest. It was suddenly very hard to keep his eyes open. 

“Sleep,” Thor said.

He had no energy left to argue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some sexual content, gender issues, and a lot of twisted psychology from Loki (because he's such a drama queen sometimes).
> 
> I also post this fic on [my tumblr](http://melancholic-lemon.tumblr.com/), which I've cleaned a little recently... such hard work. I post some fanart I draw there, too.
> 
> My best friend [Ate Verbti](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/) [also](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28152117498/thorxloki-fanart-for-andaes-fanfiction-that-she) [drew](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28232239619/b-w-version-of-a-picture-for-andaes-fanfiction) [some](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28236475877/coloured-version-of-previous-picture-for-andaes) [fan](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28152623118/lokis-fanart-for-andaes-fanfiction-pencil-for) [art](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28489216233/the-moment-the-door-closed-behind-them-thor-was) [for](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28596501840/not-everyone-is-dancing-with-joy-p) [me](http://ateverbti.tumblr.com/post/28728826859/thorki-smut) (some of it is NSFW), which is the coolest thing ever and you should totally check her blog and [her ao3 account](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ateverbti).

When Loki woke up, hail turned back to rain.

He was alone in his bed, wrapped in clean sheets, naked, though he had no recollection of either leaving the couch or being carried to his bedroom. The chamber was as messy and dusty as it had been, the curtains drawn tightly, only a thin knife of gray light peering through. The air was fresher than he had expected, though, as if somebody had aired the room. Nevertheless his head felt heavy and somewhat frail, headache building rapidly in his temples. 

The door creaked and Thor entered, looking bright despite dark circles under his eyes. He brought a gust of warmth with him, of dark golden autumn. Loki sat up, his half-asleep mind already horrified by remembered bits and pieces of the previous day, fear and guilt a cold fist clenched tight in his chest. Thor sat by him, kissed him lightly. From behind his shoulder Loki noticed his children standing in the doorway. 

“It's fine,” Hel said, conjuring half a smile from somewhere. Loki made a move to rise, then remembered his own nakedness. His daughter scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Really, Father, we are not angry with you, well, not anymore. But we can reconsider if you still refuse to eat and behave like a reasonable adult being.” 

They left, the door slamming shut with a little too much force behind them. Thor laughed a little under his breath and then Loki noticed he was carrying a plate full of fresh bread and cheese, and a cup of watered-down wine on a tray.

“I knew the day will come when she enlists you in her conspiracy,” Loki sighed, taking the cup from Thor and wincing slightly at the flavor, too sweet for his taste. Seeing Thor's insistent expression, he picked a piece of bread, scattering crumbs on the sheets. Only then he realized how hungry he was, and bit into it eagerly.

“Well, she has found me a willing accomplice,” Thor smiled, concern plain on his face. Loki resisted an urge to move closer to him, to find himself again in the circle of warmth. “You could listen to her once in a while. I swear, she has more sense than you.”

“She was born old,” Loki mumbled, licking butter off his fingers. Thor's eyes were suddenly fixed on him, very blue and wide. He managed to tear his gaze off him with visible difficulty. Loki drew closer, feeling a smirk curving his lips, and watching Thor's cheeks redden. He put empty dishes on the nightstand, reaching for Thor, suddenly desperate to feel his skin under his fingertips, to wind his hair around his hands. Thor went willingly for once, blue eyes clouded, touching him back, gently running his fingers down his cheek, cupping his chin to kiss him again, rich and slow.

“Are you back to unsavory intentions toward me?” Loki asked, low and throaty. He slithered out of the bedsheets, all long limbs and bare skin, arching his back under Thor's hands running along his sides, his spine. The need was back again, frantic desire for Thor's golden summer heat, to crawl over him and into him until nothing else mattered anymore. 

“You make it difficult to do otherwise,” Thor said, gathering him close, mouth on his collarbone, tongue drawing trails of fire on his skin. Loki felt a sound rising in his throat, something rather undignified, escaping despite his best efforts, and then Thor was laughing, breathy and deep. Loki could feel the rumble of it beneath his ribs. “You look at me and I stop thinking.”

“I like you that way,” Loki chuckled, unable to stop full-body shiver when Thor's hands wandered down again, all rough skin and calluses pressing into his back. He was almost in Thor's lap, legs wrapping around Thor's hips, naked skin pressed to smooth fabric of Thor's shirt. His heartbeat was deafeningly loud in his ears, blood pounding all the way to his fingertips.

“Liar,” Thor said softly, eyes solemn behind the glaze of desire. “It would be too easy. You would bore of me quickly.”

“Why?” Loki deliberately pressed his hips closer, smirked when he heard a moan and then Thor was kissing him again, far from gentle, impatient fingers in his hair and tongue brushing over his teeth. When he finally pulled away, gasping for breath, his lips were wet and kissed red, swollen. “You are not a conquest for me,” Loki finished in a rush.

“What am I, then?” Thor's voice was surprisingly measured, intent, his hand still cradling Loki's face, thumb running over the marking crossing his cheekbone, breath hot on Loki's lips, still only inches away. 

It was as if all the words escaped Loki, scattered around, nothing pretty, or safe, or easy left for him to say. He kissed Thor again, desperate and afraid, trying to speak without speaking. Thor let him, fingers tangling in his hair, lips soft and warm. In the end he was the one to break the kiss, but didn't move away, pressing his forehead to Loki's, already damp with sweat.

“What am I to you?”

Loki drew a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, anything to escape this piercing gaze, but the answer was already on his tongue and he couldn't stop it from spilling.

“Something I have never expected to find,” he whispered, his voice shaking in the end, “because I have never believed in good fortune.”

Thor was very still for a heartbeat, then smiled slightly. “Fair enough,” he murmured, wet lips going down Loki's neck, stealing his breath away. He felt fragile, exposed, melting slowly under the warmth. Thor was silent, his hands tangled in Loki's hair pulling gently, exposing his throat where he trailed down kisses, slow, purposeful. It was mesmerizing, in a way, Thor's touch on him, solemn, reverent.

“I want you,” Thor said in his ear, voice rough, rasping breath on his skin, “so badly, Loki--”

“Shh,” Loki murmured, fingers squeezing Thor's shoulders, holding on tight so he wouldn't fall apart. “I know. Please--”

It was terrifying in a way, Thor swallowing his words, an involuntary moan escaping his throat. Loki tugged at his shirt, silk slipping his fingers until they separated for an infinitely long second so Thor could pull it over his head. Then he was flat on his back, Thor everywhere over him, warmth and golden skin, golden hair falling on Loki's chest. He scrambled desperately to get Thor closer, knees gripping his hips tightly. He reached down, fingers brushing the fabric of Thor's trousers, and willed them away with remaining part of mind which hadn't been clouded with desire. Thor made a rough, guttural sound, pressing him closer, almost lifting him off the bed. 

“Mine,” he almost growled. Loki grabbed him by the hair, buried his fists deep into it, forcing Thor to tilt his head, give him enough leverage to kiss him, bite into his lower lip, and drink any other words Thor wielded so clumsily before they spilled.

In some faraway place inside his mind, one separated from burning lust, there was a coil of cold wet fear, stunned disbelief at his own actions. How could he act like that, how could he sound so desperate, so out of control where his fingernails left angry red marks on the skin of Thor's back and shoulders. He was left stripped of any restraint, answering readily every breathless kiss, every caress, and Thor looked equally wrecked, equally out of his depth. He ground into Loki, barely holding himself propped on his elbows, making small, low noises in his throat when Loki's mouth and teeth on his neck found a sensitive spot. His hands roamed lower and lower, eager and greedy, and Loki felt himself arching under the touch. Thor smiled into the hollow of his collarbone, lips wet and bitten. 

“I want you,” Loki said again, aiming for seductive, or maybe commanding, but heard a whine, a plea instead. Thor cursed, teeth sinking into rough skin of Loki's shoulder, fingers digging into his hips. 

“Fates, Loki,” he heard Thor groan, hot and shaking. Loki reached blindly for the nightstand, knocked over several items, heard glass shattering on the floor before his fingers brushed a small bottle. It was so easy to forget himself, to allow his body to take over in a way he had not permitted for decades, to lose his thoughts in bright vast nothing. 

“Yes,” there was his voice, strange and shaky, when Thor spilled the oil in a hurry over his fingers, over bedsheets, when there was a surprisingly gentle wet touch sliding up the inside of his thigh. “Yes,” he whispered, urgent, lifting his hips, trying to hurry Thor up. He gritted his teeth but a moan escaped nonetheless, it was almost too much, he was tethering on the edge, his insides pulling at him, ice dripping and melting. Thor was breathing heavily into his neck, teeth and tongue on his skin, fingers moving slowly inside him, twisting, wringing another desperate sound out of his throat, it had been ages since somebody had touched him like that, and it was too slow, as if fearful.

“I'm not,” Loki tried, vaguely surprised at his ability to form consonants at this point, “made of glass, Thor, damn you--” 

The rest of the sentenced scrambled and fell apart, and he almost hated Thor for making him feel that way, for taking his control away so easily. Then the fingers withdrew and he was going to kill Thor, painfully, taking his time, until finally he felt Thor inside, all warmth and gold.

Thor's hair was damp with sweat, his eyes dark, fluttering closed, and Loki could hear his heavy breathing, feel his nails biting painful streaks onto his hips and back. He was moving carefully, his rhythm maddeningly steady when the only thing Loki wanted was to tear him apart, unravel thread by thread and crawl into his skin, lose himself in the sensations, because Thor was now his, at least for these short moments, and when Loki wanted to possess something, he desired it all. Thor would not indulge him so, would not wreck him like that, only whisper broken endearments into his skin, move with painful gentleness, touch him until slide of rough skin on skin was almost unbearable. Loki's voice broke on snapped bits of air between his teeth, small sounds he could not help making as he pushed back and dug his fingernails in, sunk his teeth into Thor's soft skin where the neck joined the shoulder, and at the sight of Thor coming apart on top of him he cried out hoarsely, his eyes wide open instead of closing shut as the world shattered for a long moment. Thor cursed once more, shuddering, holding him closer, possessive, as if afraid Loki would disappear from under his hands.

Loki never wanted to let go, but finally Thor's arms around him loosened and he moved reluctantly, wincing slightly at the pull of strained muscles. They shifted and he lay his head on Thor's chest, Thor trailing his fingers through the mess of his hair, breathing slowly returning to normal, sweat cooling on heated skin. It was wet, and dirty, and uncomfortable, but all the words and complaints mashed together and refused to form.

“I love you,” he heard suddenly, Thor's voice still rough, his eyes dazed with satisfaction. In a heartbeat his embrace tightened, a flutter of panic crossing his face, but then his expression hardened, his gaze clearing. Thor was never the one to take back his words, always fearless. “I do,” he whispered in a rush, as if afraid that Loki would run, and Loki wasn't sure, maybe he would. “I do love you. I wanted to say that aloud, even though I know you don't like it.”

Loki licked his suddenly dry lips. “I--”

“Shh,” Thor murmured, putting fingers on Loki's mouth, silencing him. “I know.”

“Of all the infuriating--”

Thor kissed him, slow and lazy. He would have tried to argue the point, to get the upper hand as he always did when it came to dueling with words, but his mind refused to work, his sluggish tongue to move. 

“Ugh,” Loki said when they separated, “fine. For now.”

“I knew you would be agreeable,” Thor smiled brightly at him, sneaking a heavy arm around his shoulders, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “You know,” he whispered after a moment, “I am going to figure out everything that makes you happy. I could get used to seeing you like this.”

It sounded halfway like a threat, Thor's voice low and measured. Loki had never met someone like him, someone unconsciously commanding and at the same time yielding to Loki, his strength tempered by flashes of gentleness which was almost choking. He was so very much unlike the Jotnar who were either unconsciously respectful of his status or, more often, full of spite, unlike sorcerers who had tried to seduce and use Loki when his talent had become obvious, unlike Angrboda who was fierce, and tough, and brilliant, and completely, utterly mad. 

“Is it acceptable?” Loki said, sweeping his hand in a broad gesture, because he could never keep his mouth shut, could never believe his own luck without picking it apart. “You with me, I mean. You are the heir, after all.”

Thor made a dismissive sound at the back of his throat. “They would not care.”

Loki narrowed his eyes at him. “Really?”

“Well, no,” Thor said, one corner of his mouth tugging up slightly. “They would were I indiscreet about it. Mind you, the standard of indiscretion is somewhat loose in those matters.”

“Meaning you can do what you want as long as you would not cause a scandal.”

“More or less.” Thor stretched, all the vast expanse of muscles and sinews and skin. “Also I may have challenged those who would slander me or those with whom I lay.”

Loki snorted. “Aye, you would do that.”

Thor sighed, his face turning serious for a moment. “When it first came to the court's attention,” he said, thoughtful, “many years ago, that I had also taken men into my bed, there were accusations thrown around.” His expression turned to sneer. “As it turns out, those who are the quickest to condemn were also the first to fall when I met them in the judgment rings.” There was a crooked, nasty smile playing on his lips. “Somehow you hear fewer waggling tongues now.”

“What about me, then? I am no man, and no woman, either.” Loki tried for indifferent, but his words came out too clipped, too uneven. “Am I a reason for scandal?”

Thor shrugged, a rare feat for someone still lying flat on his back.

“Maybe,” he said, apparently unconcerned. “You are an unknown quantity. An enemy, yes--”

“--and a hostage,” Loki hissed. Thor's hands on him tightened for a moment.

“For them. But they do not know what to make of you.”

“So they would not have you lying with a man, but would bear the Jotunn,” Loki mused aloud. “One must wonder about mental faculties of the brave Aesir warriors.”

“Some of them are wiser than others.”

“As compared to what, birds and bees?” Loki snorted. There was something constricting in his chest, deep inside, running hot and cold, pulsing like terror and curiosity and desire. He disentangled himself from Thor's arms, rose from the bed, bare feet silent on the floor. Thor's eyes were on him, following his every move, as intent and solemn as ever, and he found it difficult not to blush under the scrutiny.

“Well, we do not keep them here to think,” Thor said, voice rough. 

“Thank the Fates.” Loki resisted an urge to squirm, set his jaw instead, arched his back a little, moving a little more fluid, licked his lips deliberately, slowly, never taking his eyes off Thor. It felt better to use it, his discomfort at being watched like that, instead of handing the victory over to Thor, even though he wasn't sure if winning was what he wanted.

“Come back here,” Thor said, straightening, impatient.

“I quite enjoy it up here,” Loki purred. Honesty tore painfully at his throat, even honest lust, and compulsion to hide it was almost impossible to fight. “This unknown quantity that I apparently am,” he said abruptly after a moment. “Is that what you like?”

“Loki--”

“This strangeness,” he carried on, equally unable to quell an impulse to hurt, “which is me, is that appealing to you?”

“I want you,” Thor growled, “because of you, not because--”

“Do you.” Loki's voice sounded flat to his own ears, fearful on the edges. He closed his eyes tight and changed, his body melting easily, though he couldn't stop a full-body shiver, a wave of nausea. He never could, even though this shape was still his own, the other real form of his body, just the other side of the same coin. Male or female, no difference. It felt wrong, somehow. It was supposed to be a matter of instinct, not something to be called up on a whim, not about iron-hard control one needed to be a sorcerer as strong as Loki was. Not about choice, but about necessity and acceptance. 

There was a sharp intake of breath and he felt Thor's presence suddenly beside him, a rush of warmth. “Are you trying to prove something to me?” Thor asked quietly. 

“Watch me. Is that what you want?” Loki had expected shock, maybe rejection, and yet still Thor was watching him carefully, anxiously, his hands still at his sides. 

“I know who you are, Loki. I always have.”

“Why did you not ask me to be like that – for you?” His female shape did not resemble the Aesir women much, still lean and all whipcord muscle, flat chest and narrow hips, but it was different, and would have made everything simpler.

Thor frowned, his hands moving again, caressing Loki's cheek. His expression was guarded, soft underneath.

“Why should I?” He sounded baffled, genuinely, and there was a shout rising in Loki's throat, a scream of denial, because nobody could be so accepting, not of him.

“Because that's what you do. What people do. Everything is about what you want. It would be easier for you and for the others. Understandable. Me, a war-prize,” his voice turned bitter without conscious decision on his side, “another woman in your bed.”

“Apparently understandable is not what I want,” Thor said through gritted teeth, “considering I want you, the real you. However you choose to come to me.”

“Lucky me you are not very bright, then,” Loki whispered, half-willing to move away, leave the room, flee, but his muscles refused to work. 

“Lucky you,” Thor said quietly, his fingers trailing the curve of the marking on Loki's cheek, then slowly running down, across his jaw, neck, chest, as if curious. “I will never be able to give you the words you want.”

“I have never come to you for words.” Loki forced his lips to curve in a smirk and stepped deliberately into Thor's space, watched his breath hitch. He wanted to hurt him, break him, touch him, hear him admit a lie or confess his love again in all honesty, over and over, and the contradiction made his head swim.

“How can I make you believe me, then, if you refuse my words and my actions alike?” Thor asked, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark, but he kept still, too still. “I love you. I'm not sure how it happened, but I do. I want for who you are, not for what you are or whatever you are telling yourself right now.”

Loki wound his hands in Thor's hair, closed his fists around handfuls of them and pulled hard, jerked his head down violently and kissed him with barely any gentleness at all, teeth and tongue, drawing blood and licking it off. Someone was making those low, sobbing noises, barely human, and he could never tell whether it was him or Thor. Thor tried to be kind about it, dull the edges, turn it into something less cruel, something that did not seem like a battle, one hand on the back of Loki's neck, the other on his jaw, soft and gentle, unlike Loki's fingers cutting red marks into the skin of his shoulders and back. Loki wanted to like how Thor looked when they separated, red mouth, hair tousled, a trail of blood down his chin, but could not summon enough emotion. Kindness in those blue eyes was almost too much to bear.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Thor's voice was rough, barely-controlled emotion vivid behind it. Loki leaned to kiss him again, to silence the voice, to drown his own doubt, but there was a hand on his lips, separating them. “Shh,” Thor whispered, fingers encircling his wrists, leading him, forcing him to sit on the bed. Thor knelt on the floor at his feet, eyes painfully earnest, and he never let go of his hand, as if afraid he would flee. It did not seem completely unreasonable. “Stay with me.”

“Last time I checked I had no other options,” Loki meant for the words to come out cutting, acerbic, but his voice sounded scrapped raw and tired. “I shall stay here for better or for worse.”

“I am asking you,” Thor said, uncharacteristically patient, thumb stroking lightly the point of Loki's pulse, “to stay with me. Not just here. Not because you have to, or feel obliged, or because I am so good a distraction--” His even voice broke on the last word.

“You are good,” Loki murmured, raising his hand to caress Thor's cheek, the heat of Thor's skin almost scathing on his fingertips. Thor leaned into the touch, his eyelids fluttering closed for a moment. “Sometimes too good.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Thor asked, and he did not sound like a prince at all. “A distraction? Something to help pass the time?”

“Of course not--” Loki said, surprised, a bit of honesty amid all the half-truths.

“It feels that I am, sometimes,” Thor said, his gaze and voice suddenly sharp. “Do you hate it here so much?”

“What do you think?”

“I thought--” Thor hesitated, then carried on speaking, never the one to back up from a challenge. “I thought you could have got used to it, that you did. You are friends with my mother, and with Freyja, and there are books and magics--”

“Distractions,” Loki hissed, his fingers tightening in Thor's hair. He did not want to hurt him, he never did, but then again, he had never meant to hurt anyone and yet continued doing so. He used to think he was cursed, condemned to be small and evil, but when he grew older he understood only too well it was only him. No magic made him that way, and there was no spell to dissolve the curse that had never existed in the first place.

“Is that it, then?” Thor looked away, hair falling on his face. The words were soft, hollow, there was no anger, no accusations. Loki wanted to say that he loved him, but it would either be the truth that weakened him or a lie he was not prepared to utter, and he could not tell which. “You were fortunate to find someone like me, who would not ask smart questions or care about what skin you wear?”

“Maybe,” Loki said, dismissive, again in control of his voice, of his body, fully aware of the scream rising inside him and never allowed to surface. “What? Should I be grateful that of all the people of Asgard the prince is the one to fuck me?”

“I thought there was something more, you said so yourself,” Thor said very quietly, hands falling to his sides. He made no move to step away, and yet Loki felt as if there was suddenly a great distance between them. “And while I understand your position is not an easy one, and that you have many reasons to resent me--”

“I don't know,” Loki whispered, looking away.

“I hoped there was something more,” Thor finished as if he never heard him. “From your side. I understand I have no right to ask for this, but I hoped, Loki--”

“Do you trust me?”

There was a heartbeat of hesitation. Loki felt a laugh rising, an unhappy, hollow sound.

“You don't. Good. You shouldn't.”

“Is this how you see yourself?” Thor, kneeling still on the floor, suddenly looked smaller, duller. Tired. “Finding flaws and picking at them until they break you?”

“You know nothing about being broken.” It came out a hiss, a shriek. Loki suddenly felt caged, desperate for hands on him, for something to keep him together until he found his balance again, until the storm passed. It lived in him, a coil of darkness ready to strike the moment he allowed himself a weakness.

“Perhaps,” Thor said, still even, but there was an underside of anger to it. He stood up, breathing heavily, his face white. Muscles of his jaw were visible as he gritted his teeth, taking long, angry strides around the room. He came upon the discarded oil bottle, picked it up, then flung it to the floor, the sound of glass shattering deafeningly low in the silent room. “Shall I show you how broken I can be?” He ground out, voice almost unrecognizable. “Just watch me.”

Loki drew his knees up, an instinctual urge to make himself smaller, to hide. It was easy to forget how terrifying Thor could be, how much power slept underneath his eyes and smile and golden summer radiance. There was a roar of thunder outside, gray rainclouds gathering together, turning black and ominous. The flash of lightning that followed was almost blinding. The room was suddenly charged, colder, he could smell electricity on his skin, in the air, radiating off Thor in waves.

“I can see you,” Thor said, still quiet, but Loki noticed his fists clenching, fingernails digging into flesh. There were still reddish marks from Loki's teeth and nails on his neck, on his back, but they did nothing to cover battle scars, white and pink when flesh had mended, did nothing to cover that Thor was a warrior, had always been. “I can see what you are doing, to me, to yourself. I won't let you go. You hear me? Never.”

Another thunder crashed. Several plates and glasses scattered around the room shattered into pieces, glass glittering on the floor. The wind outside howled, an open window slammed shut. It was dark and getting darker still, even though afternoon had barely passed. 

“Thor--” Loki started, struggling to keep his voice under control. His skin crawled, his fingers itched to get Thor under them again, to taste the thunderstorm.

“Don't,” Thor snapped. “Why can't you just take what is offered?”

“Must you throw my words back in my face?” Loki welcomed a surge of defensiveness. Thor was pacing, large angry steps, bare feet dangerously close to glass shards littering the floor. Outside the storm raged, the rain violent on the windowpanes. 

“Only when you deserve them.” Thor stopped not far from him, his back and shoulders still tense, lips white and tight. “I love you, I have said so. I want you, and you alone, and I will love and want you, you only, as long as you have me.”

“Or until you bore of me,” Loki said in a small voice. Thor was next to him in an instant, strong hand curling at the back of his neck, thumb running along his jawline, tilting his chin up until Loki finally met Thor's eyes.

“It bears repeating,” Thor said, his face mere inches from Loki's. “As long as you have me. Tell me to leave, honestly, and I shall. Should I go?”

“Yes,” Loki whispered. “Yes.”

“Liar.”

Rough fingers on his skin, sliding down his neck and back, brushing over ridges and protrusions along his spine, the smell of ozone still in his nostrils, and then he reached to kiss Thor, to silence the words once more, taste longing and blood and love and thunder. A hand on his lips stopped him halfway. 

“Do you want me to go?” Thor said again, insistent.

“Yes.”

“A lie again. Tell me the truth. What do you want?”

He hated himself, hated himself so much for being damaged, broken, for every true word he had hoarded, kept to himself never to see the light of day. Thor's hands on him tightened, almost painful, pinning him in place, holding him together. If not for them, he would flee or he would shatter. 

“What,” Thor whispered in his ear, “do you want?”

“I want,” Loki sighed, suddenly boneless, unwilling to move, to fight, “I want snowy fields under black skies, I want to run when the Winter reigns, I want to breathe ice again and see all of my children and my kin by me, and I want you, but you cannot give me any of these.”

“As for me, I believe this one is mine to give,” Thor's voice was clipped, and he was visibly struggling for control. Loki could not stop a mirthless laugh rising in his throat.

“You cannot be so naïve,” he hissed, drowning deeper in Thor's embrace as if to belie his words. “You of all people, the heir. There is very little of you that you can offer freely in the end.”

“Is it about that, then?” Thor frowned. “It did not seem to bother you before.”

“You do not need someone like me,” Loki said, bitter. Thor's hands on him clenched, then loosened. 

“And here you are mistaken,” he said quietly.

“The All-father would beg to differ, I fear.”

“I do not care,” Thor said, forceful. His forehead was pressed to Loki's, his hand caressing his cheek, the other holding him in place. “I may be bound to the realm, and so are you, but now it is about us, and us alone. You and me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you.”

“You trust it will protect you.” Loki wanted to run away, or to crawl deeper into this embrace, and could not choose which one. “Protect me. What a flimsy shield against this court, against the nine realms this love is.”

“It will be enough for now.” Thor kissed him, quick and chaste, just a brush of lips. “If you let it.”

“Why should I?”

He felt a smile against his lips.

“Because you want to.”

“And this makes it dangerous.”

Thor scoffed. “You were the one to breach the Asgardian border alone, even though you were aware of the consequences. You faced us without flinching. You agreed to stay here, you convinced your father and mine, all for the sake of your realm. Do not speak to me about danger. For all your claims to cowardice, to reason, I have seen your courage.” Thor's voice softened finally on the last words. “So do not lie to me.”

“Do you know what they call me?” Loki asked, desperately scrambling for words, for arguments. They all crumbled in the face of Thor's stubbornness. “The one who walks in the sky. The trickster. The lie-smith. How can you ask truth of me so easily and trust that I will oblige you?”

“I cannot,” Thor said, his hands on Loki still gentle and warm.

“No,” Loki sighed, “you cannot.”

*

“You screwed it up, didn't you.” Hel never bothered to turn it into a question. She must have heard Thor leave, but gave Loki several minutes to dress and compose himself, and he was infinitely thankful for this small mercy. 

“Aye,” he said quietly. She was curled in his lap, small bundle of warmth and comfort, while Fenrir lay pressed to his knees, silent as ever, only hackles rising to mark his distress. “That's what I do. Screw up.”

Hel scoffed. “You are lucky,” she said, tucking stray hairs back into his braid between amber shards. “He'll forgive you.”

“I fear that.”

“Oh, Father, what a fool you are.” She stole a gem from the end of his braid and tucked it between her own white thin strands. It looked strangely out of place, too gaudy. “You always resist what is good for you.”

“I was under impression that you cared little for Thor, kitten,” he said, smiling slightly despite himself.

“I reconsidered.” She looked him over, lips pursed. “Why don't you tell him that you love him? Oh, don't give me that look, Father, I know you well enough. Obviously you didn't tell him. Because you haven't admitted it to yourself yet.”

“It's none of your business, daughter mine,” he said, voice low and dangerous despite himself. Hel's eyes gave no trace of doubt, and she seemed as serene as ever, with a hint of sardonic amusement. “I've made a mistake. I keep making it. Please don't make it worse.”

“Father, when you decide to meddle with weather, it's a mistake. It's a mistake to wake up a twenty feet long beast from its slumber in the middle of Winter. The whole business with Thrym's bride was a mistake from the beginning. It was a mistake to hide every last one of Skadi's spellbooks and replace them with badly written erotica. Even though the last one was amusing while it lasted,” she added after a moment's thought. “But he hates you enough already. It's not a mistake if you allow yourself to feel something.”

“Thrym would not be able to tell his bride from a log of wood, and Skadi had it coming,” Loki muttered, but Hel did not allow herself to be misdirected. “Kitten, I am sorry, but you have to trust me on this one. This will only hurt if I allow it to last.” His voice broke on the last sentence. He was distantly surprised at almost physical pain somewhere beneath his ribs, a coil of misery heavy in his stomach. “He's--”

“--in love with you,” Hel interrupted, stone-cold and patient. “And I presume adult and able to make his own decisions.”

“--an heir to the throne,” Loki said, determined to get his point across. “And I am but a hostage, an enemy, not even a woman, and a thousand other things he is not allowed to have. And if there is something I am not to possess, ever, it is him.”

“What is proper and allowed have never stopped you before,” Hel said, quiet, sad. 

“There is more at stake,” he said, not quite able to shake the feeling he was trying to convince primarily himself. 

“Why? Because you care?”

Fenrir whined, pressing himself closer to Loki's knees, but Loki was sure it was more in reassurance than disagreement with what Hel had said. He scratched his ear nonetheless, a bit of relief in familiar movement.

“Yes, because I care. It has gone too far,” he said, voice scraped raw. “I would have stayed little more than a conquest to protect him. The others would gladly accept someone like me as his whore, who am I to them after all? Look how low I have fallen.”

“But he would not let you do this.”

“Of course not,” Loki hid his face in his hands. “Because he is the kind one, not me.”

“You're overthinking,” Hel said softly. “But you cannot simply allow him to protect you. You would not let yourself.”

“What am I worth if I cannot protect myself?” Loki grimaced, the words sharper than he intended. Hel did not respond at once, only her embrace around him tightened.

“This choice is not solely yours,” she said finally. “And I believe he has made his feelings on the matter quite clear.”

“Yes,” Loki said, “he has.”

*

Walking away from their fight, or whatever it was, felt somehow like winning, but Thor was not sure if winning was something he wanted in the first place. He recalled the whole conversation repeatedly, trying to find the right words, the right way to say them, anything to make Loki believe him, and he failed every time, haunted by the recollection of dazed satisfaction turning slowly into cold dread in his stomach. There was shame, and guilt, and fascinated desire not dulled by time, the images of Loki present somewhere at the back of his mind, shamelessly naked in the red autumn sunlight, long limbs, disheveled hair, showing off for him, one form blending effortlessly into another. It should not have been so enticing, should not set his blood on fire. Loki must have known. He always did, always knew what to say, what to do to make Thor stop thinking, to avoid words he did not wish to hear.

He kept coming to Thor, and Thor let him, despite his better judgment, let him between his sheets, into his head again. It did not make things better, did not answer questions, did not deflect accusations or assuage doubts, only gave a few hours' refuge and then more guilt. Thor kept vowing to stop and kept breaking this promise. Loki would come in either form, male or female, as if expecting rejection, but in neither he was soft, in neither he yielded, even when Thor made him scream. He was always sharp angles and sharp words, forever slipping away from Thor.

It was better than nothing, better than outright rejection, and for all that Loki clouded himself in riddles and secrets, Thor could see the hollowness in him, or maybe more feel than see. He had never been proficient in reading others, in stripping away layers of deceit, and yet he could not help feeling he may have been getting better in reading Loki, that he may have acquired a sense of knowing him, more intuitive than intellectual. It did not aid him much in actually getting to Loki, only added to a sense of helplessness every time he gave in, allowed Loki to brush aside the words, every speech Thor had carefully prepared and always failed to utter.

The court had little business in his private affairs, but what Loki had said planted a seed of doubt in his mind, that maybe there were some who took keener interest in something that should not concern them. However, he heard no more whispers than usual, and even when he tried to make discreet inquiries they turned up nothing. His friends voiced some concern about him, and though he did not go to great lengths to conceal whatever he had with Loki, he did try to keep it somewhat under wraps, and they could offer little help. Perhaps there was something to be concerned about, a grain of truth in unspoken warnings about _Jotunn_ and _seidrmadr_ and _enemy_. He wished he could dismiss them as easily as he had done before, countless times from this time on autumnal equinox when he had decided to throw caution to the wind, or maybe earlier even, when he lay in the mud with an erstwhile foe and could not stop thinking about power and beauty. All this time he thought them wrong, chose to trust a trickster, and did not regret it, perhaps, or perhaps he did.

In a way, Loki's welcoming arms and refusal to speak openly helped him as well, allowed him to drag his feet, to postpone the need to decide whether to believe this self-professed liar. Or maybe the truth of his words or actions lay not in Loki's intention, but in Thor's own actions that may still validate or disprove them. He would need to decide either way, one day, but he half-welcomed every evening, every night, when Loki came to him and required nothing but his body.

And yet his conscience would not let the matter lie, and he longed, desperately, for any kind of reassurance, and affection fluttering madly in his chest would not let him sleep, tearing at him until he felt like howling and understood only too well that this bright possessive love would not be content by itself, however he tried to convince himself that he had no right to demand reciprocity. He had never expected to fall headlong into this the way he did. There were crushes for him, and dalliances, some more sensible than the others, women and men in his bed, and he was fond of every last one of them, but always vaguely distant. They were lovers, but he had never been in love. And now, when he was, it was a tangle of thorns and it tore and hurt and burned. 

*

“It's not working, isn't it?” Thor said without thinking.

They were lying side by side, Loki curled on his chest, threading long fingers through his hair, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Mere moments earlier he had been on top of Thor, spine arched, cursing Thor, encouraging, until his words dissolved into meaningless moans, sweat shining on his skin, thighs shuddering with tension and nails scraping Thor's chest. He had warmed from Thor's touch, from his body, almost impossibly warm, pliant under his hands, almost thoughtless, almost yielding, or as close as he could get. 

“On the contrary,” Loki murmured, lifting his head to look at Thor, mouth curved in a smirk, pink tongue running over his lips. Thor wanted him, again, almost painfully in its intensity. It scared him, sometimes, how Loki seemed to have him in the palm of his hand. 

“Loki,” Thor tried to be stern, but it came out pleading more than anything. Loki, never one to ignore a weakness, rose gracefully to straddle Thor's hips. “Please.”

“Please, what?” His smile was all teeth, predatory. Cold tips of his fingers wandered down Thor's chest, along the contours of muscles and ribs, and Thor could not stop a full-body shudder, a wave of desire which made it nearly impossible to think. Loki's eyes were dark and wide, breath coming out in heavy gasps when he ground slowly into Thor, still warm and wet. 

“Stop it,” Thor caught his wandering hands, dug fingers of his other hand into Loki's hip, trying to force him off, but Loki only laughed, the sound ringing false even to Thor's ears, and escaped him in one fluid movement. “It does not help. It never will.”

“Perhaps,” Loki whispered, fingers on Thor's skin again, infuriating, teasing, leaving fire in their wake. “But do we have anything else?”

Thor grabbed him, rolled them until Loki was beneath him, pinned his wrists to the bed. Loki lay still for a moment, all seduction gone from his face, which was suddenly raw, miserable. 

“We should,” Thor said softly. “We could.”

“I cannot,” Loki whispered, shutting his eyes tight, struggling feebly to escape Thor's hold, but the effort was obviously halfhearted. He could free himself in a heartbeat if he truly wanted to. “I am sorry, so sorry. I cannot give you anything more, I have tried, I have--”

Thor put a finger on his lips and Loki went abruptly silent, limp under Thor's body. 

“I would like you to give you what you need,” Loki whispered after a moment when Thor's fingers withdrew. “But I cannot, not really.”

“Is honesty so great a request?”

“You have no idea, after all this time,” Loki said, smiling slightly, and unlike all the others it was a true smile, with no trace of happiness at all, and it nearly broke Thor. “I do not think you are prepared to bear the gift of my honesty. Why can't you take me false and happy?”

“Because I want you. Not a lie about you.”

“Do you want the truth?” Loki's voice was an ugly, twisted thing. “There it is. I am an unwanted child that nearly cost my father his rule, I have antagonized the wise and alienated those who could have been allies, I hurt those who loved me and loved those who used me, then I broke them after I used them myself. I wanted you, I want you, but I will break you too, because I break things that are true and beautiful.”

“Loki, why--” 

This time Loki slipped from under his hands, and was out of bed in one fluid movement, bare feet soundless on the rug, dark curtain of his hair hiding his face from view. Fear and desire twisted into a sharp knot in Thor's stomach and he rose to catch Loki, anything to hold him and keep him, but he avoided Thor's hands deftly, suddenly on the other side of the room, picking up his discarded tunic. 

“That would be enough,” Thor growled, feeling something snap in his veins, the roar of thunder very sudden outside the window. He reined his temper in with a difficulty. “Come here.”

“After all I have told you?” Loki's voice was cut to the bone. “After all these days, when I have been hurting you? I hoped you would get angry,” he continued, milder, softer, “angry enough to leave on your own.”

“You should have known,” Thor stood, crossed the floor, took Loki in his arms and pretended he did not feel him trembling, “that whatever you did, it would not be enough.”

“Aye,” Loki said, “I should. You fool. I have warned you.”

“And what if I am not wise enough to heed the warning?”

“Then I hope you are strong enough to endure it.”

They stood in silence for a long stretch of time, Loki slowly calming in Thor's embrace.

“Will you stay?” Thor asked finally, his hope almost too big to be contained behind simple words.

“For now,” Loki said and it felt a little bit like a promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long! My laptop broke and it took me a while to get it fixed. Also, I've updated the tags, because um, this didn't end up exactly the way I planned.

Loki had never truly thought he would find his son again on the same gray, desolate beach in this remote corner of Midgard, but his despair seemed to defy all reason and he hoped despite himself for the smallest of signs, anything to show him that not everything was lost. What welcomed him was a damp, chilly afternoon, the sea dark and restless, heavy, wet snow falling in clumps, touching his face and hair like kisses, never melting. It was empty, devoid of life, of meaning, just a strand of sand and stones, with nothing to show what had happened there. He waded through snow and sand, every footstep difficult, easy to slip on uneven footing. A gull cried sharply somewhere overhead and he started violently, then shook his head and chuckled at his own foolishness. He walked a long road, came a long way from where he had been until he could barely remember a trickster prince, a traveling sorcerer he used to be, someone on his guard, dauntless, not someone jumping at his own shadow.

Now, faced with the stillness of snow and sand and sea, he could finally admit to himself that he had never come here looking for Jormungandr. The serpent would not have come to him even if he had stayed near the beach, which was unlikely, but what Loki needed was a way out. A moment alone to think, to face what he had done, what he intended to do. Perhaps he looked for absolution, now that he had seen the chance, almost surrendered to Thor's unrelenting stubbornness, and perhaps if he could make this one thing right, he would see the way to fix the others. Perhaps in this foreign realm, under alien sky and alien snow wet on his eyelashes, he could glimpse a way home.

He could try, he supposed, he could make an honest attempt, he owed this much to Thor and wanted it himself so very much that his breath was caught in his throat, trapped, and he was unable to scream, to speak in a voice louder than the quietest of whispers, and yet his nature pushed him away, pulled him apart. He was done, finished with that, with self-loathing, with inadequacy, and if they were real and not a product of his own mind, he would find a way to destroy them all the same. He could not bear to see everything fall apart in his hands again, and even more to watch it crumble without an attempt to help it survive.

That was it, then. The decision, the one he never wanted to make, the one he had no idea how to make in the first place, came to him unbidden, on its own, bypassing the mind and heart, fully-formed already and definite like a punch to the gut. It was liberating, suddenly, and terrifying in how it closed off all the other paths, how it bound him and freed him, how it forced him to speak the words aloud to the empty sea and finally allowed him to say them.

“I love him, then,” he said and laughed, the sound drowned in the wind and crashing of waves. “So very simple and easy.”

The sea and wind muffled the voices behind him, soft snow quieted their footsteps and Loki only heard them in the last second when it was almost too late. His magic pulsed through him like a second heartbeat, ice bloomed along his arm, its grip tight to the point of pain and reassuring. He parried the blade of a large Aesir warrior and let it slid along his own, then he was moving again, slipping through the air between four other blades and he could hear shouting, clanging of steel, and there was this sinking feeling that whatever had brought this about, he was never going to win. There was no time to change his shape, to form any of his most complicated spells.

A knife formed under his fingers and he threw it in the same motion. One of the warriors staggered back, his mouth curved into a manic grin, and fell, the blade buried to the hilt between his armor plates. Loki exhaled, breathed the ice out, froze the wind for a second, turned wet soft snow into a storm of needles, but most of them bounced ineffectively off the Aesir warriors' armor. His next two knives missed their targets and he was forced to defend himself desperately from the onslaught of three remaining attackers, their blades and axes relentlessly seeking openings in his defense. He dove to the side, avoiding wide high slash, breathed out again, raising several illusion of himself, hoping to distract the Aesir, but they seemed not to notice them, pursuing him with a single-minded intent.

He managed to fell another warrior by a stroke of sheer luck, when the berserk rage blinded him to the handful of sharp ice blades Loki hurled in his direction, and they pierced his unprotected face and neck even through the armor. The warriors fought as if immune to pain, to their armor plates freezing and falling apart under Loki's touch in those rare instances when he managed to get a hold on them, heedless of angry dark patches of frostbite forming on their skin. Loki kept retreating, his breath painful and heavy in his lungs, trying desperately to keep the ice blade on his arm from crumbling under the Aesir swords. 

A thought came to him and in a flash he dropped the spell that had kept the Watcher's sight on him, in a faint hope that at least somebody would notice. There were traitors in the Asgardian halls and as much as Loki would claim that he did not care, causing another war was another matter altogether. Then pain bloomed in his shoulder, blood freezing within moments, his vision blacking for a second. He managed to avoid another blow by pure instinct, but was painfully aware that he was not going to last long. The other warrior swung his ax at him, Loki rolled out of range and threw a handful of snow into his eyes, his blade only grazing the As' side.

Then there was singing of magic in his ears, a nauseatingly familiar voice laughing in his ear, cold fingers on his face, his lips, and everything turned to darkness.

*

“Father's gone,” Hel said. 

For a moment all Thor could see was black tinted with red, a roar rising deep in his chest, his fingertips going numb and his lungs on fire. He and Loki had reached something tentative, a promise more than anything, but he should never have trusted words that came out of the liar's mouth. He should have expected a betrayal all along, after all Loki himself had warned him and he had been too foolish to listen. 

Then he noticed Hel's trembling lips, her hands buried in her brother's fur, knuckles white and shaking, and all this was gone, leaving him hollow and cold. If he let himself believe Loki's confession of trickery even for a moment, he would be lost, one moment of doubt and his shaky building of trust would come tumbling down, even though it was something Loki wanted. Thor would have accepted being betrayed, if it had come to that, would have accepted the sea of black cold revenge he could sometimes glimpse in Loki, would have acquiesced to being an enemy that had wronged him, but would never believe that Loki had run and left his children behind.

Hel refused to speak any more in the corridors where she had found him, instead led him into the gardens, withered and deserted at this time of year. Fenrir trod alongside them, giant paws loud on the wet ground. Leafless branches of flowering trees pierced the sky, flowerbeds were dark and empty, and brown blades of dried grass melted slowly into the ground. The sky hung low overhead, gray and heavy.

“Tell me,” Thor said, his fingers encircling Mjolnir's handle involuntarily.

Hel looked away, lips pursed, and hesitated. Fenrir growled quietly and turned his head to look at Thor, soft growl of his mind-speech edged and heavy in Thor's thoughts.

 _He left early for Midgard_ , Fenrir said, _and was meant to come back before anyone realized._

“What do you mean, left?”

“I do not think he wanted you to know,” Hel said softly, apparently encouraged by her brother. “He has means to come and go as he pleases.” She was silent for a moment, judging Thor's expression. “He would have never left for good, though. What holds him here are not walls and chains.”

“I was aware of that,” Thor said, distantly marveling at how calm his voice sounded. “To an extent. Are you saying that Loki can avoid Heimdall's gaze?”

“Of course he can,” Hel snorted, for a second back to her usual self. “'Tis not a small feat, but not unheard of. Father knows the secret, but I do not, and I know of no means to track him down with seidr once he is gone.” Her face twisted in a grimace. “He left just before dawn.”

 _He just wanted to talk with Jormungandr_ , Fenrir said, pressing close to Hel, nearly tripping her over. _He told us so. He was meant to be gone for a few hours, just to find him and tell him, I do not know what, apologize or demand apology--_

“No matter,” Hel interrupted, impatient. “We know it was not about talking, but about being alone for a while. You know how he is sometimes. What matters is that he is not here. Something must have happened.” Her voice trembled, her face was flushed and suddenly she stood by Thor, little hands grabbing his shirt and shaking. She was so light he barely felt it. In this moment Thor realized how scared she was, how mindlessly frightened, barely holding herself together. He patted her shoulder, awkwardly, unsure of her reaction, but she paid him no mind. 

“Do you think someone may have captured him?”

 _Otherwise no power would stop him from returning to us_ , Fenrir said, and his voice in mind-speech was mild and bland, but Thor heard his growling clearly enough. _I will find them and drag their entrails over the ground._

“You do that, brother,” Hel whispered, then pulled herself together with visible difficulty. “I think we should tell Lady Freyja,” she said after a moment. “We will need help to get out of Asgard.”

 _You will stay, sister,_ Fenrir said. _Please do not argue._

“If you expect me to stay put while you are in danger--”

 _For all our sakes, you will remain here._ His voice allowed no argument. _We need somebody we can trust here, and you are no warrior, sister._

She gritted her teeth, but eventually relented, nodding. “You are right, of course.”

_Hopefully, we will be back soon and no one would be the wiser. I know where we must go once we leave Asgard. We would need Freyja's assistance to leave unless we wish to ask the Watcher for passage and we cannot do so lest we bring suspicions upon us._

“I am the heir,” Thor said, absurdly moved to contribute something, anything, to the discussion. “I have used Bifrost often enough and no one thought to question me. There is no need to seek twisted paths when we can use the easier road.”

“Because that is not suspicious at all,” Hel said blandly, “you leaving all of sudden with Fenrir in tow, with none of your warrior friends.” Thor shut his mouth and tried not to glare. “No, you need to be quick and move secretly. And we need to figure out a way to keep Father's absence hidden. An illusion, perhaps?”

 _Could you weave one convincing enough?_ Fenrir asked. Hel bit her lip and shook her head after a moment.

“Not for long, I fear.”

Thor broke his stillness, this inability to act born out of fear now cradled soundly in his stomach. He was never one for planning, but always the first to move, to fight, and now he had something of his to reclaim, and a person or group of people he meant to end for this transgression. He would not allow himself to think Loki dead, not yet.

“Let us find Freyja, then,” he said, “and on our way you may want to explain how exactly we are going to find him.”

*

Freyja listened to them with her brows knitted, asking only pointed questions, her voice and face otherwise expressionless. She wore a man's clothing that day, a pair of trousers and a leather vest thrown over a linen shirt, her sword bumping her leg as she walked around, supervising her einherjar fighting in the sparring rings, never hesitating to take the weapon herself to show a particularly tricky move. When Hel finished speaking she nodded curtly, then dismissed the warriors for the evening meal, but offered no comment until the courtyard was empty and silent save for the four of them. Her eyes were hard like chips of diamond, icy blue and calculating. Thor was sometimes fooled by the act she adopted, by her flirting and giggling, and forgot that she could be bright and sharp and hard-edged like a sword's blade. She pulled Thor unceremoniously aside, leaving Hel and Fenrir out of hearing range.

“Are you sure this is not a trick?” She asked, voice low, glancing toward the girl and the wolf. “Loki may have escaped on his own and now he waits for you to leave Asgard, so he can capture you and use you as a bargaining chip.”

Thor could not help a flash of anger, seizing him, making him see black for a second. “Freyja--”

“I need to know,” she said, voice steady, fearless. He wasn't sure whether he could win a fight with her if she decided to draw her sword. “Thor, I like Loki, but I need to know.”

“He wouldn't,” Thor said, his words grinding into one another.

“Are you sure? Sure enough to bet your life on it, to risk Asgard's safety?”

He looked her straight in the eye and nodded. She sighed. “You have always been a bad liar, little brother. I shall help you.” She squeezed his shoulder, brief and hard. “I can make an illusion of Loki and sustain it for a time, but you will have no longer than a day or two until somebody gets suspicious. I can also weave you a path out of Asgard, but where do you want to go?”

 _The Well of Urd,_ Fenrir said curtly.

“Oh, no,” Freyja said, shaking her head. “I have promised to help you find Loki, not kill yourselves. There must be some other way. Frigga may have seen something in her weaving.”

 _There is none._ Fenrir paced impatiently, tail sweeping and teeth gleaming. _We have talked about it, Hel and I. I am reasonably certain I can stop the Norns from killing us. After all, I am a Jotunn after a fashion and they tend not to kill their own kind._

“They are mad, they have magic none of us understands, and their wisdom comes at much too high a cost,” Freyja said. “You will be of no help to Loki as dry bones by the Well.”

“Lady Frigga would not share her foresight,” Hel said softly. “You know well that she cannot. We can try magic from here, seidr, rune-casting, if you have any better idea, we are listening. Do you think you can see him while the Watcher himself cannot? I think we have but one way and we need you to open the path.”

“I don't want your blood on my hands,” Freyja said, her lips very white. “Thor, please.”

He did not answer. She watched him for a long moment and finally turned, sighing. 

“Fine,” she said. “I hate it, but I shall do it.”

*

There was a sound of water dripping, steady, relentless. The intervals between drops were slightly too long and Loki found himself holding his breath and thinking for a split second that it finally stopped, but then he heard another sound of a water drop falling into a pool, then silence and wait again. He heard voices, sometimes, rasping echoing voices over his head, but they may have been dreams. He was falling in and out of consciousness, his head tender and painful, stomach lurching.

He was bound with chains and magic, hands stretched uncomfortably over his head, tongue thick and useless in his mouth. The cold touch of iron wrought with seidr encircled and trapped his magic, again, and made it nearly impossible to breathe, as if even the air was imprisoned within his body. He lay on something hard, a rock, and the air was warm and damp and choking. He could see very little, just reflections of light from somewhere ahead.

Then there was fear, nauseating and black, heavy in his stomach. Whoever had taken him must have been prepared. The voices were closer, clearer now and he could almost make out the words before he passed out again.

When he came to his senses again, his whole body hurt, the pain infinitely bright and sharp, but he could think despite it, the word somewhat scrapped of its previous haze. There was darkness for a few moments, then somebody uncovered a lantern and Loki nearly cried out when the light hit his eyes. 

“He's awake,” someone's gruff voice stated. 

Loki's tongue felt useless, too thick, too large for his mouth to speak. His eyes gradually adjusted to the light. Two Aesir men stood over him. He had fought the larger one on the beach. The smaller one, who was holding a lantern, was unfamiliar. The third figure kept out of the light. 

“Do you want congratulations for your unsurpassed ability for stating the obvious?” The figure in the dark was the one who spoke, voice smooth and cold, intimately familiar. 

“Be silent,” the larger As growled and Loki thought for a moment he could fit a name, to his face, scarred and bearded. He must have been one of Odin’s warriors, he thought.

“Shall I remind you how I helped you? You would have been caught and hanged if not for me and my seidr. He dropped his own disguise. The Watcher would have seen it all. I am the only reason you have had this chance.”

“And that is why we tolerate you,” the man with the lantern spoke for the first time, rough and slightly amused. “This is a mutually beneficial agreement. Try not to make it unbearable.”

Loki smiled with an effort, a smile as wolfish and red as he could manage under the circumstances.

“Greetings to you, good folk,” he rasped, enjoying for a brief moment a look of surprise on their faces. The figure in the dark simply snorted and then closed on them, cold blue fingers suddenly on Loki's jaw, digging painfully into skin, forcing him to look up.

“You are as insolent as ever,” Skadi purred, his eyes wide and hateful, exactly the way Loki remembered them. He still wore his dark hair long and elaborately braided, falling down his bare back and over his chest crisscrossed with markings, almost to a top of leather wrap he bound around his narrow hips. He towered easily over two stalwart Aesir, a thin blue shadow in the dim light. “Such ego for something so twisted.”

“Still jealous of me?” Loki was proud that his voice never wavered. “After all those years? My, aren't you a stubborn one, Skadi.”

Skadi's smile was sharp, brittle. “I have no reason to be jealous. I was the one to teach you when no one else would deign to even talk to you, lest put a weapon in your hands. You are a shame, Laufeyson. A failure. You owe me everything you are. Remember how you moaned under me, how you melted under my hands?”

Loki remembered only too well, lust tainted with hatred. “And yet you kept coming back for more,” he said, schooling his face into impassiveness. “Begged and begged to let you back.”

Skadi's face twisted violently, sharp teeth bared in a snarl and for a moment Loki could see very clearly his claws closing around his neck. “You were nothing,” he hissed. “No one else would touch you, teach you anything of use save those foolish brothers of yours.”

“I owe you nothing,” Loki said, trying not to flinch from Skadi's fingers tracing his exposed collarbone, a gesture too stiff and jerky to be even a parody of caress. “You taught me nothing but parlor tricks. And don't flatter yourself, darling, with your writhing and flailing around you were a mediocre lover at best.”

He started laughing and kept laughing when Skadi backhanded him, his head bouncing off the stone floor, his teeth rattling, kept laughing through blood seeping from where his teeth cut into his cheek.

“Don't you remember how you begged me for more, every time, pretty and flushed and--”

This time the blow was harder and he almost choked on blood suddenly filling his mouth.

“You're wasting your time, Skadi,” the thinner As said. “We have a lot to do. Weave your magics to guard him or whatever it was you wanted to do, we need to move, now.”

“Calm down, horseface,” the other As said. “Let him have his fun. We still need to wait for the others, anyway.”

“Do you fancy himself a funny man, my friend? Because it's a failed endeavor if I've ever seen one,” the thin As murmured. “We cannot proceed everyone is in position, true, but there is still much to be done here. Unless you wish to be found and taken back to Asgard in chains.”

“My spells will hold,” Skadi said, quiet and menacing, his eyes never leaving Loki. “Keep your end of the bargain.”

“We shall, there is no need to get nervous,” the thinner As said, hands raised in a placating gesture. “We need to work together or we'll hang, but you know that, Skadi.”

“I do. Now leave me. There is something I need to do.”

The thinner As looked as if he wanted to protest, but the other one put a hand on his shoulder and he relented, pursing his lips unhappily. “Just don't damage the prisoner.” He thought for a moment, eyeing Loki with distaste. “Much. We may still need him.”

They left, heavy footsteps echoing in the dark. They took the lantern with them, so Skadi lit a cold flame between his fingers, thin tendrils of glowing blue smoke winding around his knuckles, waking small fires in his eyes. The fingers of his other hand, dancing along Loki's jaw and throat for the last several minutes, suddenly dug into skin.

“You are not happy to see me at all, are you?” Loki said, his voice shrill and alien. 

“On the contrary,” Skadi smiled, sharp and cruel, fingernails drawing blood. “I have you exactly where I wanted you.” His face was only inches away, and then his lips were on Loki's, and Loki had nowhere to move, no way to flinch away from teeth sinking into his lower lip, tearing at skin, Skadi's breathing heavy, frantic on his skin. Loki's mouth felt raw when Skadi finally drew away, hand gripping his shoulder for balance, and spat blood into Loki's face. “Did you think you could get away?” 

Loki wanted to turn away, to flee from the hand gripping his jaw, from a trickle of blood and saliva running down his face, but couldn't, Skadi's hold pinned him vice-like, and manacles were unyielding around his wrists. “I left you behind,” he whispered, anger, revulsion and fear muffling his voice until it was almost inaudible. “I took everything I could from you and left, and you could do nothing about it. You could never forgive me for that, could you?”

“Now you will pay,” Skadi said, “for everything. For my magic, for me and for my father.”

“Let me guess,” Loki said, his tongue moving in his mouth, words pouring out of him, the need to mask the fear impossible to fight. “You will take the realm apart to enact your vengeance.”

Skadi laughed, cold and high. “You have always had an inflated sense of your own importance,” he said. “It is not about you. Well, not specifically,” he amended after a moment's consideration, his lips curving in a smile. “You should prove useful. A spark that started a wildfire and no one will ever know you were but an unwitting pawn.”

“Am I a scapegoat, then?”

“After a fashion.” Skadi was touching his face absentmindedly, fingers running along his jawline, caressing his shoulder and neck, and Loki didn't want to give him the satisfaction of flinching away.

“My disappearance is bound to cause uproar,” Loki mused aloud, desperate to hear his own voice, anything to distract himself. “Father will demand explanation. The Aesir would think, however, that I fled on my own. There will be no war, though. The All-father would never do anything so rash.”

There was an expression on Skadi's face that took Loki a moment to recognize, a barely-restrained grimace of a teacher disappointed by their pupil's lack of perception. It was as if he was a youth again, a scrawny sullen boy desperate for validation and never realizing it was never to be found where he had been looking for it. 

“It's not your plan at all, is it not? You are not counting on the All-father to start a war, because you want...” He bit his lip, trying to think, to figure out the puzzle even though it would award him nothing in the end. “You said...”

“Yes?” Skadi leaned in close and Loki thought for a second he was going to kiss him again.

“Your father. It keeps coming back to Thjazi.”

Skadi tightened his fingers in Loki's hair and pulled, twisting. Loki laughed despite the pain.

“Contrary to what you may believe, my father didn't have him killed,” he said, affecting nonchalance. “There was a war. People die. Thjazi did.”

“Liar,” Skadi hissed, his hand tight on Loki's throat almost to the point of choking. “Laufey wanted to get rid of him. His incompetence cost me my father, and nearly cost all of us our lives, we spent a thousand years on our knees, scraping a meager living, without our Casket, without our power! And yet there was no one brave enough to remove the king. It changes now. Just wait and see.”

Loki tried to ease the pressure on his throat, but Skadi was too strong. “So you want to see Laufey gone. And those two want the same from their side, am I correct?” He whispered, on the verge of being unable to breathe, but equally unable to stop the words from spilling.

“The All-father's time has passed,” Skadi smiled, predatory, nails digging into the hollow of Loki's throat and he suddenly remembered Skadi's need for dominance, barely restrained by passion, bruises on his hips and wrists, his lips bloodied and swollen, but then he had it under control. Skadi's temper controlled him as much as he controlled it and he was so very easy to manipulate then. “There are many who care little for him. The Aesir deal poorly with such a long peace and he would not have a war even when the occasion presented itself. And then you have his son, consorting with sorcerers and frost giants...” Skadi leaned in, lips brushing over Loki's skin, “lying with someone such as you--”

“Shut up,” Loki rasped, but then the hand on his neck tightened, cutting off the words.

“--it's the same all over again. You touch something and it breaks. Just as I told you all those years ago. You being the king's son weakens the king. You being the heir's whore calls the heir's ability into question.”

He pressed Loki's throat until all Loki could see was black, then released him. “And in the end, I was right,” Skadi hissed. “You will prove to be the undoing of two kingdoms.”

“I am a distraction, then.” Loki's throat was aching as he spoke and his voice was rough, barely more than a whisper. 

“You are Laufey’s blind spot. He will never see what’s happening just under his nose until it’s too late.”

“So you plan on moving when he is distracted, and preferably distracts Odin, too.” Loki coughed, smiling through it. “If your plan of deposing my father hinges on you and whoever foolish enough to follow you, I think there will be a lot of dead voices echoing in his halls before the month is through. Who are your allies? You must have them, but do they have armies and strategic genius? Oh, well. It's probably Thrym, and I swear I have met logs of wood that had more sense than him, and who else, maybe Farbauti?” The expression on Skadi's face was pure hatred. “Then we are lost, the crown is yours, better kill me now.”

“We shall see about that,” Skadi said, voice shaking, and clenched his hand into fist. Loki expected a blow, but none came. Magic lights burned out and he was left in the dark, hearing Skadi's footsteps echoing away from him.

*

Thor should have expected something like that.

“My friend, I am wounded,” Fandral proclaimed, “shocked and appalled that you have chosen to keep a secret from us.”

“I needed help,” Freyja said curtly from where she was kneeling on the stone floor, hands covered in red chalk, drawing concentric circles and strings of runes. They were in one of the towers, the least-frequented ones, full of old broken furniture, dust and spiders. Thor had been gone for several minutes only, enough to don his armor and collect Mjolnir, but in the meantime she had managed to cover the floor and the walls with diagrams and formulas, lines sketched in steady hand crossing and circling each other. She had also apparently enlisted the help of Warriors Three and Sif, and all of them looked equally annoyed with Thor. Hel, pale and hollow-eyed, paced the room, Fenrir silent on her heels. The warriors very carefully avoided looking in their direction.

“You will need a cover, little brother, or the people will get suspicious about your absence,” Freyja told Thor, never looking up from her work.

“We decided to help you,” Sif said, eyes hard. “Even though you never thought to ask us first. You should have. Keeping secrets, Thor? That's unlike you.”

I thought you may disapprove, Thor wanted to say, but knew all too well that he never could, not today, not to them, he was the heir after all and about to commit a transgression that his father would probably find difficult to forgive. 

“I had my reasons,” was all he said in the end. Sif scoffed and brushed her hand on his shoulder, her face softening.

“We have known, of course,” she said and gave him a crooked smile. “About you and the Jotunn. You have acted a smitten maiden. It was a marvel to watch you like this.”

Thor was almost certain his face was on fire and he could look none of them in the eye, not at Fandral winking or Volstagg chuckling or even Hogun with the smallest of smiles tugging at thin lips, and certainly not at Sif, always ready to have a laugh on his behalf.

“All right, children, back to work.” Freyja stood up, brushed the chalk off her hands and cast a critical look over the chamber. “It seems everything is in order. I will send you not far from the place you need to reach, and I will stay here and mind the path for when you get back. I shall cast the illusion as well, but it won't hold forever. People will get suspicious if you take too long.”

Hel gave a small nod, pursing her lips. She had been whispering furiously in Fenrir's ear, but Thor couldn't make the words out. “Meanwhile,” Freyja carried on, “the warriors here will leave the palace telling everyone about a hunt or a journey, and Thor will be seen leaving with them. I will take care of it,” she said, noticing Thor's glance. “Another spell, a simpler one, meant to work only for a short time.”

“We will hide not far away from here,” Sif said. “Just in case something happens.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Thor said, not entirely certain whether he deserved such kindness at all.

*

It was nauseating in a way traveling through Bifrost never was, endless darkness and feeling of entrapment, stale air of small rooms deep underground. There was a sensation on Thor's skin like thousands little spidery legs scuttling over his arms and face, but there was nothing under his fingers when he tried to brush them off. Freyja's magic drew a thin golden like on the ground, built a path across the void he was sure he could sense on either side of him, but the feeling of claustrophobia never left him. Fenrir was quiet, silent on his feet, his presence ahead of Thor strangely comforting, though Thor could never claim to know him well.

The journey seemed never to end, as if they were walking in circles on the path that wound and tangled upon itself. When they emerged at last from dusty stifling darkness into howling wind and cold that cut to the bone, Thor was almost relieved. He gathered his fur cloak tighter around himself, though it proved to be little protection from the weather. They stood on a plain, a vast expanse of snow-covered ground under the blackest sky Thor had ever seen, under cold and distant stars and burning aurora. Crumbled remnants of buildings, walls and spires reached toward this blackness, sharp skeletal fingers piercing the air. They were all around them, a ghost of a long ruined city, wind shrieking between them. Sharp angles of iron tree branches shone in ghastly greenish light, their bark half-petrified into stone, their roots digging into ground between shattered stones.

 _Watch your step_ , Fenrir said, fraction of a second too late to save Thor from stumbling over an obstacle hidden under layer of snow. He barely kept his balance. _When we get there, stay back and let me talk_ , the wolf said after a moment.

“Have you been there?”

The wolf gave Thor a long look. _Once or twice. The journey from Laufey's court here is long, especially on foot, but we hated letting Father go alone. I was the one to keep him company. He always wanted the Norns' secrets, any scrap of knowledge, but they guard well what is theirs._

“That sounds exactly like him,” Thor said, struggling to keep up with Fenrir's pace. His legs felt clumsy and too heavy in the snow while the wolf ran effortlessly, leaving a narrow trail of paw prints.

 _You should have seen him once_ , Fenrir said softly after a long while, after a small eternity in the labyrinth between black crumbling walls. He whined, low and miserable, his tail hanging low, but then picked up speed, another dark shadow among others. Thor gritted his teeth and followed him as fast as he could.

It was getting colder with every passing minute, cold green light opposed to wide black swathes of shadow so deep they seemed to be drowning in ink. Thor lost track of time, and was almost certain he would never be able to return on his own, the mosaic of light and shadow deceiving his eyes, hiding the path from him, and shattered basalt looked the same wherever he turned. Now and then he needed to wipe his face from frost that had formed on his beard, that had frozen his eyelashes together. 

_'Tis not far now,_ Fenrir said at last, slowing down from his relentless run. They arrived at a place which must have been a marketplace or a plaza once, remains of cobblestones still partially visible from under the snow. A single ruined building rose from the center of it, its broken spires impossibly tall and twisted, walls crumbling down to nothing, and yet it stood, unmoved, and Thor had a premonition that it would outlast them all. When he craned his neck up and tried to see through the darkness and snow he thought he saw silhouettes of massive tree branches, a shadow of a trunk, shining whitish in infinite blackness, stretching up, impossibly high, through the aurora and stars, and into endless space overhead.

“Is that it?”

 _Aye_ , Fenrir said, suddenly drawing closer to Thor, body wound tight and screaming discomfort. _They may ask a blood price. They most certainly will. Let us hope we can afford to spill it._

“Whatever it takes,” Thor said, gripping Mjolnir's handle tighter as they walked into the hall.

It was bright, brighter than he had expected from darkened windows and silence outside. The floor was polished like a mirror, the tiles joined together so seamlessly that it felt like walking on the surface of a lake. The ceiling arched high over their heads, half-hidden in shadow. The lights were eerie, blue and green lanterns that seemed to burn on nothing, flickering and humming quietly as they passed. Thin tendrils of mist trailed over the floor, lingered in the corners. The journey across the floor felt endless, timeless.

In the center of the hall a tree grew, impossibly, rough whitish bark and sap trailing down the trunk, digging roots thick as Thor's bicep deep into the floor. From between them a well sprang, its waters white, opaque and thick. Thor had expected three figures he glimpsed over it, their horns easily visible from afar. Then a fourth one came from behind the tree to greet them and he saw Fenrir tense. 

The woman was no Jotunn, though she was tall like one, thin and wiry, dressed in scraps of fabric and fur, endless strings of beads and little carved bones encircling her long neck, her slender wrists, woven into her long white hair full of twigs and dried leaves. Her features were sharp and somewhat familiar, pale skin smeared with thick ochre paint in meaningless patterns, slanted red eyes shining from over pronounced cheekbones. Two enormous wolves trailed her, larger even than Fenrir, slowly flanking them, ready to spring.

 _Greetings, not-mother,_ Fenrir said, and for the first time Thor heard his mind-voice shaking. In a flash he remembered of whom the woman reminded him, her white hair, her red eyes, even though he was used to seeing this face smaller and younger, half-marred by decay.

Angrboda smiled, revealing rows of long thin fangs behind red lips.

“And greetings to you, not-son,” she said, her voice surprisingly deep and rough, almost like a man's. Her tongue darted out, licked a speck of redness that looked like blood out of a corner of her mouth. “We have expected to see you here, or your companion, sooner or later.”

 _You have?_ Fenrir's hackles were raised and he was tense, watching the witch and the wolves alternately. _Why?_

“No reason,” Angrboda said, a wicked smile curving her mouth, revealing more and more teeth. She turned to look at Thor, scratching broken fingernails over her forearm, heedless of angry red gashes they were leaving. “I know of you. Odin's son.”

“Aye,” Thor said, meeting her gaze as calmly as he could. It was unsettling to see Hel's features twisted into madness. “You are the witch who taught Loki.”

“I am the witch who made Loki.” Angrboda giggled, tearing at a strand of her hair. “And then he made himself, and the little ones, and broke me, but maybe I had been broken already.”

 _Whatever you mean, not-mother,_ Fenrir said, edging closer to Thor. _We need to see the Norns._

“Sometimes we receive what we need, my dear.” She shook her head, every bead and bone amulet in her hair rattling. “Even though in hindsight we didn't need it at all. Why didn't you stay with me, little wolf? I have so many children like you. Loki made you in their image, took my spell and remade it, but in the end you are mine as much as his. Your not-siblings, my children with fur and fangs and their moon-songs. You would be happier with us.”

 _I am sorry, Angrboda,_ Fenrir said, and Thor could see him trembling. _We could never stay. You know it well._

“And why not? Are we not strong and beautiful? Loki used to be so besotted with me, besotted enough to sculpt his daughter's face in my image, and yet left me in the end, and you will tell me now why, won't you, little wolf?”

 _That would be enough,_ Fenrir said, looking up to meet her gaze. _What happened between you and Father was no fault of ours, and, I believe, no fault of either of you. Why do you pester me so? Let us pass._

Angrboda frowned, her fists tightening and loosening compulsively, tongue darting out to lick her lips.“Forgive me,” she murmured. “My mind plays tricks on me sometimes.” 

_I know, not-mother. There is nothing to forgive._

“Sometimes I think there is,” she whispered, looking away. One of her wolves came closer to her, pressing herself to her thigh, whining quietly. “For what I have done, for what I have taught--”

_Please, don't. Whatever you or Father did, here we are. We have forgiven each other._

Angrboda looked lost for a moment, then pursed her lips and nodded, her eyes, that had been clear and bright for a moment, clouded again. “Good for you, then. I do miss my Trickster, though, sometimes. He was such a clever companion. But he have found himself another one, I see, quite a shining one, is he not?” She looked at Thor and smiled, sharp, full of teeth, barely sane. “I would like to keep him for a while, warm my bones. Pluck his light out of his chest, perhaps...” Her voice trailed off, sing-song. 

_Time for us to go,_ Fenrir told Thor, urgent. Angrboda and her wolves followed them at a distance, their paws and Angrboda's bare feet soundless on the floor. _She was always like that,_ Fenrir continued, softly enough that they couldn't hear him. _She's old, and powerful. But this power has twisted her mind._

“Have you ever thought,” Thor said, the words tearing from him almost against his will, “that the same thing may happen to Loki one day?”

Fenrir's answer was slow in coming. _All the time._

*

When they finally managed to break the door to Hel's chamber, it was too late.

She raised her gaze and looked at them, expressionless, her head still spinning from blood loss and singing of magic, of sacrifice. It was the right thing to do. Someone had to take the fall, and how she hated being small, being young and weak, the one left behind. Oh, she had lulled them into thinking they could have shared the price, deceived them all, after all she was very much her father's daughter. It would never work. Fate could not be cheated by distributing its weight, and she had more than enough to spare.

In a way it was easier than she had expected, when every last piece fell into place and she followed the ritual one step at the time, unhurried, precise. There was no room for mistakes, because everyone would have paid the price had she failed, and it was the very situation she was striving to avoid. She knew the words, remembered them for years just in case since she had scrounged them up from one of Angrboda's books, and her not-mother was always more than happy to share the knowledge with her, unwilling or unable to remember the danger. Perhaps she sought, unconsciously, to remake Hel more in her image, to carve her features deeper than Hel's skin. 

“What--” Freyja nearly shouted and it was the first time Hel heard her raise her voice. “What have you done?”

“I made a choice,” Hel said, voice bland. It always came easy to her, this marble mask, half-crushed, steady cadences of her voice, every movement precise and measured, because she was designed to the last details and it was nobody's fault that she had broken in the making.

Freyja cursed, running to her, dropping to her knees heedless of blood staining her skirts, her hands already shining green with healing magic. Hel let cold seidr wash over her skin, futile, soothing a bit, but nothing more. Blood kept seeping through long, shallow cuts on her palms and forearms. She propped her back on the bed, too tired, heavy, and satisfied to move from the heart of her seidr circles.

“I am not a victim,” she said, smiling a bit, strangely moved to reassure the other woman when Freyja didn't speak a word. “Do not try to make me into one. I am not a sacrificial offering, either.”

“What are you, then?” Sparks of seidr died around Freyja's fingers, fading into nothingness as her expression softened into regret. She brushed Hel's hair from her forehead.

“What I choose to be. Shall I tell you how I did that?”

“Do you hate me so much that you would make me sit and hear how you irreparably hurt yourself?”

“I did not harm myself so,” Hel said. “It will all regrow in time. I made a decision, a wise one. I shall heal, and they will not be slowed by weakness.”

“Hel--”

“Listen to me. What am I if not a handful of magic and blood given life by my father's folly? It was simple enough...” Her voice trailed off and she needed a moment to gather herself again through the haze. “To use it.”

“He would never want you to do this for him,” Freyja said, voice not quite shaking.

“Good for me that I never waited for his permission, then.” Hel shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the floor. “I am not doing this for him alone. My foolish brother would have tried to share the burden, and the Thunderer, too.” Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, and she simply stopped fighting the urge to close them.

“Oh, Fates,” she heard Freyja swear and then laugh bitterly at the irony.

“'Tis something for myself as well,” Hel murmured. “I needed to put my magic to test. Otherwise Father would have kept me coddled and protected for centuries on end, and I shan't be a child forever. He knows that, but he yet fears. I can see it when he thinks I'm looking the other way. One day I shall need to walk away. But if I stop, I will never be able to keep going again.” She sighed. “So took the first step.”

“There may be no return,” Freyja's voice carried an edge of panic. “If I understand correctly--”

“Am I supposed to stay here forever, then?” Hel found her hand and squeezed, more for Freyja's comfort than her own. “I am selfish. I have always been. There is nothing for me here, nothing for the monster, for the half-shadow of long-forgotten lover. I intend to make a path for myself. Among the dead or beneath the roots of Yggdrasil, if need be. But not now, and not soon, either.”

“How can you be so careless?” Freyja shifted closer to her, put an arm around her, hard muscles and smooth skin and warmth. 

“Just a calculated risk,” Hel edged away, opened her eyes and rose unsteadily to her feet. Blood was still flowing in slow trickles down her arms and fingers, thick red drops falling onto the floor. She had trouble estimating how much time she still had before she passed out. She drew a shaky breath, feeling her flesh tremble for the first time from inside, an almost imperceptible shudder that began in the marrow of her bones. “Do you realize how valuable I am? Hands full of Loki's magic, rooted in blood and Jotunheim ice. More than enough to pay for what I needed and still have enough to survive.”

Freyja was next to her, grabbing her elbow, helping her regain her balance. She unwound a scarf from around her neck, tore it in two and pressed the pieces to Hel's wrists, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“I used what I had and it worked,” Hel said softly. “Father gave me something important, now I know for sure.” The freezing coil of nervousness that had settled in her stomach dissipated. The risk was much greater that she admitted to Freyja, but it paid off. She would be able to rest in a moment. “There is more to magic than your sun and wind over the fields, more than your circles and dances and chanting under blue skies.”

“You should not have to do this.”

“Perhaps.” Hel smiled thinly. “It was my choice to turn to secrets whispered in the dark. 'Twas easy enough.”

Her bones were still vibrating with need and magic, sharp shuddering jerks that left her breathless, almost unable to see through the haze, and she swayed on her feet. Freyja cursed under her breath and lifted her as if she weighed next to nothing.

“Thank you,” Hel said after a moment, vaguely surprised at how weak her voice sounded. “For everything.”

“You are welcome,” Freyja sounded puzzled, but asked no more questions, murmuring a healing spell again and Hel let it wash over her, drown in sweet warm darkness where she did everything she could and more.

*

Loki thought he could feel his magical bindings loosening slowly.

They were crude things, with rough edges and patches of rust marring black metal surface, nothing like manacles they had put on him in Asgardian prison. Those had been works of strength, of decades of craftsmanship worthy of kings. The ones Skadi used were new, untested. Loki's magic raged underneath his skin, trapped, but alive, worrying away at shackles that bound it. He could barely contain it, flaring with his anger, his fear, pacing in a cage of his ribs like a trapped beast. 

Were he a lesser sorcerer, they would probably be enough. It was unlike Skadi to underestimate strength of his magic so badly, but then perhaps his hatred clouded his vision. Loki was the one to walk the realms unseen, to create life on a whim and make weather do his bidding, and yet Skadi still saw in him a scrawny, arrogant youth whom he once desired and who once discarded him when he found no use for him anymore.

Perhaps Loki was to blame as much as Skadi was, but it was no time to consider such matters.

He closed his eyes, forced his panic down, imagined thinnest of green seidr needles, a trickle of magic, drop by drop, relentless, steady. Brute force would help him little. Despite their crudeness the shackles were strong enough to endure frontal assault. In the end Loki often found that more subtle means awarded him more. He thought he could feel the crack widening, stone giving way under trickling water. 

There was not much time left. He could hear muffled voices from afar, Skadi's cold amused tones and rough growl of his Aesir allies. Bonds on his wrists, around his mind, were straining, cracking under pressure, painfully hot, searing into flesh. He drove into them for the last time, desperate, footsteps closing on him, and then the bond broke with a flare of pain so bright it choked him, seized his throat and drowned his scream.

He imagined a magpie, beady shining eyes and long black feathers of its tail, white belly and ragged wings. It tangled the air and came alive with a shriek, for a heartbeat lighting the air on fire. There was a shout somewhere further away and Loki could not think, only acted, carved his message deep into the magical flesh of his magpie-like construct and then set it on its way, tearing the fabric of this realm, screaming soundlessly when remnants of his bonds drove into his skin and mind.

Skadi's hand was in his hair, pulling violently, and he had to grind his teeth against whimper that threatened to get loose, and could not summon enough magic to save himself. Skadi was tearing at his hair, frighteningly strong, his claws digging into Loki's scalp, back of his head banging against the floor until his vision was dark and swimming. “What have you done?” Skadi hissed.

“None of your business,” he managed to say through the pain, through black tentacles of Skadi's magic encircling his own again in place of iron manacles, sure and choking. 

“I did not want to do that,” Skadi said, loosening his hands reluctantly, though he didn't move from where he pinned Loki to the floor. “But you left me no choice. 'Tis your fault, as always.”

“You have always blamed me for your own shortcomings,” Loki said, turning his head, spitting out blood. 

“Brokk!” Skadi called, paying him no mind.

The larger As appeared, clutching something in hand.

“You have decided, then?”

“Aye,” Skadi moved, straddling Loki's chest, his weight hard and cold. Brokk crouched above him, caught his wrists still shackled in half-broken manacles, and pinned them. He handed something golden and shimmering to Skadi. “I thought we could contain him with those bonds, but they failed. We cannot afford to let him free.”

Brokk shrugged. “I told you we should have done it from the start.”

“No matter.” Skadi unraveled a skein of golden thread, brandished a thin, long needle, glittering with magic. Loki swallowed, seidr closing on him, over his skin, suffocating already. “He did nothing before I stopped him.”

“Really?” Brokk gave Skadi a doubtful look. “We have seen the light and heard noises.”

“'Tis nothing of importance, just his magic flaring. I managed to catch him in time.”

Brokk fell silent and Skadi started chanting under his breath, ice forming on his eyelashes, on his horns, sticking his hair together. The golden string shone and twisted like a living thing tortured. Loki struggled, clarity sudden and cruel in his mind, but to no avail. The needle seemed thin like a ray of sunlight in Skadi's large fingers and he managed to thread it only with difficulty.

Loki felt the first sting over his upper lip with terrifying sharpness, thread dragging through his flesh burning hot. The needle pierced his lower lip and then moved to upper again, the stitches clean and tight, crisscrossing his mouth in quick flashes, pain raging, searing, piercing him to the core, neat stitches sewing his magic and his voice closed. 

When Skadi reached the other corner of his mouth, he felt numb. Blood dribbled down his chin in cold trickles, its scent rich and metallic in his nostrils, almost drowning sharp, clear aroma of magic. Skadi's knee was pressed to his chest, suffocating, and he could not quite bring himself to care.


	9. Chapter 9

Laufey watched after the retreating sorcerer, his expression pensive. Skadi's steps echoed around the empty throne chamber and came back to him as if there were dozens of him walking across the black stone of the floor, waking forgotten voices in the darkness under the domed ceiling.  Laufey could hear them quite clearly if he listened carefully enough, their grief and joy singing in his blood, laced with the most ancient of Winters. It was a relief, to have the Casket back, to carry it invisible between the palms of his hands, hidden just beneath his tongue, ready at his beck and call to give life and take it, to bind him tightly and safely to the ice and the night.

Skadi had been furious, stumbling over his words, his breath coming out in long hisses, teeth grinding and jaw set so hard it had had to hurt. He had begrudged the King every heartbeat he had spent in his presence, as he always did. His obedience was born out of fear, dragged out of him, and it had seemed he had spoken only out of this fear, sharing the knowledge he had glimpsed in depths of his seidr. The King's son's disappearance had been too dire a message to be left unspoken, even if Skadi had been forced to become a messenger. Had the Aesir been to blame, as Skadi had claimed, no blood spilled would have been enough to answer for this crime.

Laufey should have had him killed eons ago. It would be so very easy to call the Casket and watch ice rise from the ground, engulfing thin ankles and spindly wrists, tearing black hair from the head, silencing the spitting mouth. He remained motionless, distantly aware of his fingers sinking into the armrest of his throne, the ice soft and malleable underneath them. Skadi had not noticed.

The door slammed shut in the faraway end of the throne room, easing Laufey's discomfort a little. His blood was running cold, colder than usual, sluggish and freezing into needles. Shadows were velvet black, light bright and painful, etched into his eyes. His skin crawled, his forearms and fingers twitched, layers of razor-sharp ice forming as easily as breathing. He felt the presence behind his throne shifting, a soft exhale, a ringing sound of a blade shattering into nothingness. Helblindi rose and stood by him, his face dark and deathly still, a small black and white bird digging its claws into his shoulder as if it had been trained.

“He's good,” Laufey said softly, his voice cold and distant even to his own ears. “I would have believed him.”

“Say a word, Father.”

“No. Let him go.”

He did not have to turn his head to see Helblindi's wide, stunned eyes. A blade was blooming along his forearm again, sharp jagged edges growing across his knuckles. Laufey reached and touched his shoulder briefly, noticed the shudder.

“They think us fooled,” he carried on, half-consciously raising his voice to be heard over an almost solid cry of a glacier breaking, even though Helblindi could never hear it. “We have an advantage.”

He had to tighten his fingers on Helblindi's shoulder to stop him from running.

“Hear me out, son,” he said quietly. “Think. Skadi is not acting alone. He would never have courage for that. I could have killed him on the spot and no one would question me, but his accomplices would have remained hidden. We do not know where Loki is, either. Only that he was taken, and by whom.”

Helblindi went very still, then looked up at him. “So you intend to lure them out.”

“Aye.” Laufey felt his lips curve, bared his teeth, but was sure the expression did not resemble a smile at all. “I do. I shall do exactly what Skadi wants me to do. But I shan't come unprepared. Do you understand now?”

There was a shadow of a doubt fleeting across Helblindi's face, but then he nodded tersely. “What do you want me to do, Father?”

Laufey touched the magpie's back. It was cold and smooth under his fingers, utterly unlike feathers and flesh. “I still have the amulet you charmed off Angrboda. Go to Urd. Tell them I shall pay the blood price. Find your brother. Then come to Asgard. I shall be waiting. Hopefully this will draw the rebels out.” Helblindi met his eyes and Laufey softened his expression, gave a smile for his benefit. “Be clever and fast, my son.”

Helblindi nodded once, jerkily.

“And please do try to enjoy plotting with your father.”

**** *

Even though none of the Norns looked their way, Thor could not shake off the feeling of being watched, as if their sight extended beyond their eyes and to every mote of dust in the empty hall, every bit of stale air. It made his skin crawl, and his fingers shook slightly when he gripped the handle of Mjolnir and tried to summon his strength again, to feel the lightning crackling in his chest and in his fingertips. His mouth tasted of ash, his throat scorched dry. It was not about glory, not about his fighting prowess, even not about safety of Asgardian borders or any other of a thousand reasons he had had for battle, it was about something much dearer to him and he had but one chance for this. He did not know how to handle it.

“Do you know the price?”

Fenrir looked at him sideways and did a wolfish equivalent of a shrug, a strange full-body shudder as if he was human under his fur. _I have an idea, yes. You should be able to keep your eye, though, if that worries you._

Thor frowned. Fenrir's wolfish laugh rumbled deep in his chest, red tongue lolling.

_Oh, please. Do not tell me you believe everything the All-father says. The Deceiver, we call him. 'Twas my grandfather who gouged the eye out, it wasn’t given away for knowledge, and no magic can be bought for a dead lump of flesh lost in battle._

“My father knows enough of sacrifice,” Thor said quietly after a while. Fenrir snorted in answer.

_Aye, true enough. Of sacrifice and hanging trees. Pray that you will never have to twine the same rope around your neck. The world is far and cold when you look at it from branch of the ash tree._

“And how would you know?” Thor heard the note of anger in his voice, of defensiveness.

_I am a seidrmadr's son. I needed to know. We all did, if only to stop Father from doing something that could not be reversed._

He fell silent after that and Thor did not ask further.

The ash tree glowed faintly in the dark, a pale swollen shape with brownish leaves clinging to its twisted branches. The well rippled between its roots, thick and milky white. The Norns moved like ghosts by it, spindly thin and skeletal, towering despite hunched backs. Their shadows were long and black, blacker even than the floor, unmoving. As they came nearer Thor slowly realized there was a thrumming sound in his head, a faint ringing of bells just at the edge of his hearing range, a trembling in the air. It was deathly, painfully cold, and his breath came out in a cloud every time he exhaled.

Then they were by the water, frost clinging to Thor's beard and eyelashes. The youngest Norn was sitting at the edge of the pool, trailing long fingers in the water. He raised his head and met Thor's gaze, and Thor's world was suddenly white, breath knocked out of him as if somebody hit him in the solar plexus.

Sight was returning to him slowly, his heartbeat deafeningly loud in his ears. The Norn tilted his head, and he could read nothing at all in his dagger-thin face. Countless silver necklaces and bracelets were clinking together as the Norn climbed slowly to his feet. His horns were proud and slender, curving gently above the head, his hair a silver-white cloud flowing in the wind Thor could not feel. The Norn's face was covered in old scars and tattoos crisscrossing over his markings, and Thor realized they formed an image of an ash tree, thin trunk running down the Norn's neck and chest, the roots coiling around his ankle, every leaf and branch cut into flesh, some raised and gnarled, some impossibly thin as if carved with a needle. He was naked, and in a female shape.

“Greetings,” he said. His voice sounded like gravel, startlingly rough, rasping. “It has been a long time, little wolf.”

_I am not fit for affairs of sorcerers and gods, Skuld,_ Fenrir said. Skuld smiled, corners of his slanted red eyes crinkling, and looked millennia younger, though there was an undercurrent of sadness Thor could not help noticing.

“'Tis a pity, then,” Skuld murmured.

_What?_ Fenrir's voice turned sharp. _Tell me!_

“You should know better than to demand that of me. Think on your question, the one you came here to ask.”

Fenrir was silent for a long moment, and he was close enough to Thor that he could feel him shaking. _You are breaking the rules,_ he said finally. _You stopped me. You should have answered the question and demand the price, but you didn't. Why?_

“Am I not allowed to have my favorites?” Skuld's smile looked brittle. “Take what is offered, and think, for the Tree's sake, wolf. You are not a cub anymore to play with baubles.”

_I am not the one playing here, Skuld,_ Fenrir said softly. _You are not telling me something that matters._

“I am not,” Skuld said, moving away, sitting again by the water, disturbing white, flat surface with a toe. “'Tis not me who should answer your question, though.”

_I do not like it,_ Fenrir whispered. _Something must have happened._

They walked around the well, finding their way between thick roots digging into the floor, between small pools of white water gathering in places where the tiles had broken and sunk under the pressure. The ringing intensified until Thor could feel it in his bones, in his teeth. Skuld was unsettling, and radiated power, but his two elder brothers were aglow with it, almost painful to look at. If not for it, he could have missed the eldest Norn easily, pale tall figure with long lines and sharp angles, skin rough with ridges and lines, gnarled like a tree's root. One of his thick horns was broken in half, and most of his body was covered with a gray shroud, wrapped in layers of thick fabric.

What drew his gaze, though, was the third Norn, the middle one with his horns curiously curled, and his hair a shock of red and gold. He was like a splash of blood upon white-black background, a sliver of color against winter landscape. Thick gold bands pierced his lips, his nose and ears, encircled his neck and wrists. He was heavily pregnant, and the contrast between his swollen belly and thin limbs seemed almost grotesque.

Angrboda and her children stepped from behind them, and Thor started, surprised. He had almost forgotten about them.

“I told you, Verdandi,” Angrboda said, standing before the red-haired Norn. For a moment she did not seem insane, just sad, old and tired. “It is done. I can feel it.”

“Aye, it is done, as was promised,” the Norn said, gingerly getting to his feet. Only then Thor noticed the blood, thin red streams trickling down his face between the markings, down his arms, dripping slowly from pointed fingertips. He could smell it, harsh and metallic. Verdandi's steps were unsteady, slow, but it seemed that nothing would stop him once he started moving. He walked to Thor, frighteningly tall and alien, every inch a Jotunn and yet nothing like them, and touched Thor's forehead briefly before he could move away. There was a shift behind his eyes, a blinding flash of white, a taste of frost on his tongue, and his world tilted, spinning. He barely kept his balance. There was a distressed wolf's whimper at his side and he thought it was Fenrir, but it took him long moments to regain his sight and breath.

_How?_ Fenrir's voice in his head was high and shrill.

“My dear not-child,” Angrboda murmured, “sometimes you cannot stop people you love from hurting themselves when they reach for something they want. I am sorry.”

“What for?” Thor asked, instinctively moving closer to Fenrir, and the wolf leaned hard on him, his side pressed to Thor's. There was knowledge in Thor's mind, bright and sharp, precise image of a gray beach and underground cave, he could remember the humidity and the dark even though he had never been there before.

“'Tis but a small part of here we took,” Verdandi said, smiling a little at Thor, his lips full and purple. He moved away again to sit by his silent brother. “Nothing that won't regrow, nothing that wasn’t offered.”

A sound drew Thor's attention, a quiet splashing of water. There was something moving underneath the milky surface of the well, something dark and sinuous. It broke the surface in a tangle of oily black tendrils that writhed as if in great pain. It reached the bank and crawled out, shapeless, covered with rows of tiny barbs. Thor cursed, reaching for Mjolnir, but before he could draw it, the thing convulsed, white water mixed with blood trickling down in thick streams, and began to lose color and reform. It emitted a high, screeching sound that forced Thor to cover his ears and fight to simply keep himself conscious. The thing shot upwards, now grayish with streaks of white and red, went still, took shape.

Fenrir was moving an instant it happened, too fast for anyone to react, running past Thor, past the wolves, and was on Angrboda in a flash, pinning her to the ground, his jaws open and snarling just above her face. She laughed and tried to swat at him, but his growl stopped her mid-motion.

“What for, not-son?”

_You knew,_ Fenrir snarled, the words almost unrecognizable. _You had a hand in this._

“She was but an intermediary,” a voice interrupted. There was almost nothing left of the black coils, only a pale, translucent figure, painfully familiar. She walked toward them, unsteady, her hair in disarray and her dress in tatters. Thor could see right through her, through her skin shining with sweat and through flesh rotting off her bones, through sunken eyes, through her hands smeared with red up to elbows, thick blood still dripping from her fingers.

“I used our connection to get what was needed,” Hel carried on, calm and collected despite her appearance. She reached for Fenrir, but her hand hovered just above his neck, never touching. “It was my choice, brother. Let her go and I shall explain everything.”

Angrboda's wolves circled around them, deadly silent. Fenrir reluctantly backed away, his hackles raised, ready to strike. Before he knew it, Thor had Mjolnir in his hand, his mouth full of taste of lightning and metal. It seemed ages before Angrboda stood up and called the wolves back with a careless gesture, though Thor could hear their quiet growling, and nervous tension never left Fenrir's body.

“Thank you,” Hel said softly. She turned her head and looked at the Norns expectantly. “I am but a specter here, correct? I remember falling asleep.”

“Aye,” the eldest Norn said, his voice scratchy and rough, but not unkind. “There is still something we know of mercy. We shall never take the price heavier that what you receive in return. We needed you to see, though. A revelation, perhaps, freely given. You are proud, child, and careless, and too eager to let go of something you should have treasured.”

Hel shook her head, looking the Norn straight in the eyes. “It's mine to take and give away. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, as you did yours. Do not speak to me of mercy. Of all the being in all the realms, you should know well enough of power and sacrifice.”

“You still do not understand the danger,” Angrboda said, clenching her fists so tight Thor could see blood seeping through her fingers. “I did what you asked of me, kitten. I do not have to like it.”

“You owe me a debt,” Hel said. “You and Father alike.”

“I know. And I shan't stop you, not now, not in the future. I have no right. But if you have ever loved us, any of us--”

“I do,” Hel interrupted. “It doesn't matter. Father made me on a whim, gave me your face – well, half of it, anyway,” a smile twisted her mouth, “carved your features into mine just to keep you close when everything between you was falling apart. As if a daughter would mean anything to you. I know. I always have, and I don't blame you.”

“You have never been a good liar.”

“Perhaps.” Underneath her sharp expression Hel looked miserable, vulnerable, and reminded Thor so painfully of Loki. “I do blame you, then, even though I know I should not. 'Tis not your fault. If I could fix your mind, I would, but nobody can.”

“That is my own doing,” Angrboda said softly, but her voice carried an edge. “You cannot use magic such as mine and remain sane.” She looked away. “I hoped to spare you this fate. Your father, too.”

“I tried, I did,” Hel said, and for a split second looked like a child before composing herself again. “In Jotunheim, then in Asgard, but don't you understand, not-mother? There is no place for me. I shall never be more than Loki's daughter, a mockery, or a monster. Or maybe I could be like you, build a house in the wilderness and bear wolves until my mind dilutes in seidr.”

“I am not sorry for my life,” Angrboda said, quiet and fierce. “You could have come back to me.”

“And become you in time. No, Angrboda.”

“You'll break his heart, child.”

Hel's face twitched, her hands curling into fists, but then she straightened her shoulders and shook her head. “He should have known the risk. He poured a lot of himself into me.” She smiled, tired and crooked. “No matter.” She turned away, walked toward the Norns, looked them straight in the eye, fearless. “Let me go.”

“You are your father's daughter,” Skuld said, sighing. He reached and touched Hel's forehead, long nails scraping across exposed muscle on one side and smooth flesh on the other. “This is what shall be,” he said softly, sing-song. “What needs to occur.”

Hel screamed, shrill and high, and the sound pierced to the bone, barely human. A flash of light blinded Thor, almost knocking him over and forcing him to cover his eyes. Fenrir crouched next to him, shaking, and through the screaming and the blaze Thor thought he could hear a woman's hysterical laughter, or perhaps sobbing.

“I ride the battlefields to decide who wins and who loses,” Skuld said, his voice ringing with regret, easily heard even over the screaming, “and I take the slain so they can fight another day under a different sky. I should not have done this for you.”

“Stop wringing your hands, Skuld,” the eldest Norn said, mocking and rough. “The girl knows what she's doing, and you were the same.” He stood up abruptly, his cloak and his shadow unfolding and unfolding until this vast expanse of dark fabric swallowed up the light and Hel's cry. “A Jotunn, a Valkyrie and a Norn, you have too many faces and too many scruples. Hush, child.”

Hel's specter was curled on the floor, trembling. She rose unsteadily, and Thor saw her eye brimming with light, glowing trickles running from her mouth, her nostrils, shining through the cracks in the flesh rotting off her face. She took a shuddering breath and exhaled a cloud of light motes. The radiance was deepening quickly into darker hues. Only her eye remained bright, and her hair white and frail, her exposed flesh fading into black, her lips blood red, and her dress flowing around her in black tatters.

“What have you done?” she said, voice twisted with fear.

“'Tis but a glimpse,” Skuld said, not unkindly. “I am sorry. The pain will recede. This is what it feels like, child. Think it over. There are other paths out there, and this one brings misery.”

Hel hugged herself, shuddering, as the light and the dark bled slowly out of her, leaving her as pale and gray as usual, with her eye only gleaming red. She was less substantial with every passing moment, contours of her phantom blurring and tearing apart. “You cannot frighten me,” she said in a small voice.

“You are a fool, then, girl,” Urd said, lips curving in a smirk. “You should be frightened when a Norn reaches through the realms and the darkness of your dream to pull you down to the Well. Go then, and we shall see each other again, because you will never learn.”

He flicked his fingers carelessly and Hel's phantom form disappeared in an instance, soundless, without even a flicker of light to mark her passage. A few moments passed, with Fenrir growling only breaking the silence.

“I think ‘tis time for us to go,” Thor said, shifting uncomfortably under the focused attention of the three Norns. Angrboda, who had been humming to herself, looked him over and gave him a lopsided smile.

“There is one matter that needs to be taken care of,” she said and giggled like a little girl. “My fault, obviously. I could never help but cause a little mischief myself.”

Fenrir edged away, suddenly tense. Thor had an idea about how Angrboda’s mischief must have been like for him, but none of the Norns looked alarmed or offended, just bored, perhaps curious. Verdandi was smiling, dark red tongue darting to lick the fullness of his lips. Urd wrapped his cloak around himself again, only red eyes glaring from under the hood, gleaming maliciously in the otherworldly light. Skuld took to wandering the bank of the well again, disturbing milky water with his bare toes.

“You tangle too easily with the lives of others, Angrboda,” Verdandi said.

“Perhaps it is so. They keep my mind tethered, though. I have forgotten, but I have found it again.”

“Is that why you vex my father so?”

A not entirely unfamiliar shape crossed the floor, silent on bare feet. It took Thor a few moment to recognize those sharply chiseled features, hard edges framing the face, horns curling thick and proud over the head. The Prince of Jotunheim was tall and wide-shouldered, all whip-cord muscle and lines crossing wide planes of his chest and arms, disappearing under fur and cloth he wrapped around narrow hips. Thor could see Loki’s face reflected in high cheekbones, in the shape of his eyes, his narrow mouth, but where Loki was lean and all tightly wound tension, Helblindi was broad and carried his strength easily. He wore thick gold rings studded with precious gems encircling his horns, but no other jewellery, and carried a spear and a broad, wickedly curved knife. A magpie was perched on his shoulder, incongruously, unnaturally still, its eyes beady and obsidian black. There was a harried look on his face, and several shallow gashes across his chest, blood already frozen over.

“Am I late again?” he said, shaking his head. “I swear I need to kill somebody, and soon.”

_Uncle, you are going to be the worst King in the history of Jotunheim,_ Fenrir said. _I know more about diplomacy than you, and I am a wolf._

Helblindi smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “A wolf-shaped energy being given flesh by magic,” he said as if quoting someone, then continued more seriously. “I was delayed by some einherjar. I would have thought it a provocation.” His eyes lingered on Thor, stone-cold and hard.

Thor never wanted to admit it out loud, deluded himself into thinking that there was no conspiracy in Asgard, even when he could read it clearly enough in Freyja’s silences, in his own creeping suspicion. He could never say it, not before Helblindi, who was first and foremost Laufey’s heir and the heir to the Winter, and only then Loki’s brother of whom Loki had spoken so fondly.

“We know where Loki is,” Thor said instead.

Helblindi blinked, his glacier stillness broken for a second, and looked at Fenrir. The wolf went to him, pressed his head against his side for a moment. _We do, he said. You should have been swifter on your feet, Uncle. How did you know in the first place?_

“Long story,” Helblindi muttered, fingers running along the shaft of his spear. “I know who had taken him, Fenrir. It was Skadi.”

Fenrir’s growl echoed across the hall. _We should have known._

Helblindi smiled, sharp, all teeth and no joy. “I have means to travel between the worlds. We should go. Time is running out.”

“Aye, it is,” Angrboda said before Thor could. “We shan’t see each other for some time, I believe.” She smiled again, sharp points of her teeth gleamed. “Have I helped?”

“Yes, Angrboda, you have,” Helblindi said, his tone gentler than Thor had expected from him. “Be safe. And do try to stop annoying my father so much.”

“And where would be joy in that,” she murmured and blew them a kiss, a gust of air that bit Thor’s cheek and stung for long minutes after Angrboda and her wolves disappeared in a swirl of autumn leaves and iron needles.

“You should go, too,” Skuld called to them from his place at the well, now knee-deep in the water, ends of his hair touching the opaque surface. “We have tired of you.”

Thor looked at Helblindi and Fenrir, wished briefly he could have found himself in a slightly less strange company and then hurried after them out from the hall. Fenrir was chattering, words flowing out of him in a loud growl, and more of them than Thor had ever heard from him. Helblindi was answering equally quickly, his hands brushing his nephew’s neck and back, the wolf never straying from him too far. They moved through the snow entirely too fast.

“How did you pay for the knowledge?” Helblindi asked at last when they put enough distance between them and the plaza.

Fenrir whined, low and miserable. _In a way we never wished we did._

“Oh, Fates,” Helblindi groaned. “I know this voice. I would have paid the blood-price, you know. Even though Father insisted it should be him. I planned on disobeying.”

“We all would pay, and gladly.” Thor said.

_But Hel beat us to it,_ Fenrir said, shaking himself off. It had a distant similarity to a small hill moving. _I would have stopped her. I should have._

Helblindi swore, a long string of curses that sounded like ice breaking. “I am going to kill her. You both, too. Even if killing a heir to the throne of a foreign kingdom is bad taste.”

_We are not repeating the accident with the svartalfar,_ Fenrir said and his voice brokered no argument.

“I was in the right,” Helblindi said, a touch rebellious.

He unwound a piece of string from his thick wrist, leather and pieces of bone, and started muttering under his breath. He pricked his finger and smeared a bit of blood on the amulet before it could freeze. The air was suddenly molasses thick and hard to breathe, clinging to skin and hair.

Shouldn’t we have a plan?

“No,” Thor and Helblindi answered in unison.

**** *

“We should have had a plan,” Helblindi said.

Thor shifted in his manacles, trying to feel for weaknesses, but found none. He was chained to a wall, arms twisted and stretched uncomfortably over his head. They thought they could strip him off his armor, but he did his best to prove them wrong, which helped him little in the end, but at least he still had his chainmail on. They had been unable to lift Mjolnir, and it still lay where Thor had dropped it, infuriatingly out of his reach. Whatever magic was in the shackles, it prevented him from summoning it. They had taken Helblindi’s weapons, though. There were both Aesir and Jotnar among the enemies, and they were prepared, they enclosed Helblindi’s ice in magic and led Fenrir away, snarling and growling, wrapped in thick black chains that shone oily in the firelight.

“I am always going to claim there were hundreds of them,” Helblindi continued, his face expressionless, the voice slightly rasping. “Hundreds, I say.”

Thor spat blood on the floor, feeling his teeth with his tongue. Someone had hit him in the face, but apparently not hard enough. “We should have won. We would have won if not for the sorcerer.”

Helblindi shrugged as much as his manacles allowed him. “I seem to recall someone stabbing you in the back, Odinson.”

“And that, too. Also try not to forget being outnumbered ten to one.”

“This used to work for me well enough,” Thor muttered, trying to mask swelling wave of panic under levity.

They were in a vast underground cavern, sparse torches the only source of dim light. Their words echoed across it, very small in the dark. There was a distant sound of water dripping, screech of metal on stone, footsteps, voices, too far to discern how many. From what Thor had managed to notice before taking a blow to the face the rebels were only a fraction of the Asgardian forces, but they had sorcerers with them, and were allied with great many Jotnar. He had recognized familiar faces among the Aesir, but they turned away when they saw him, and only fought harder. He could not guess who their leader was, though, and saw no trace of Loki.

“Not all is lost,” Helblindi said. “My brother will mock me until the end of days for it, but...”

“What do you mean?”

“My family may think me slow, but I have not come unprepared.” Helblindi smiled, openly mocking. “Granted, ‘twas not my own idea... It should not be long now, I hope. These are dreadfully uncomfortable.” His voice turned darker, lower, not sarcastic anymore. “And I believe I have a debt to settle.”

He fell silent after that. Thor turned his attention back to his bonds, tugging and twisting back and forth, hoping to weaken them at least a little, perhaps pull them from the wall. He could hear howling in the distance, a wolf’s snarling, cries of pain. There was something underneath, a humming sound that started almost inaudible and then filled his ears, roaring and deafening.

“Not long now,” Helblindi repeated, straining in his bonds, his face full of anticipation. He was flexing his fingers, long claws scratching the walls. “They miscalculated. They allowed a bit of my brother’s magic to slip away, to alert us about the danger, and now, now I set it free.”

Thor suddenly remembered the magpie, the absurdly tiny bird that had been clinging to Helblindi’s wide shoulder, and that he had not seen it since they went into the cave.

“Just wait,” Helblindi whispered, and Thor was unsure whether the words were meant for him or their captors, “just wait and see.”

*

The halls and courtyards were quiet, most people either at the evening meal or having already gone to their homes in the city. Freyja’s boots were too loud on the floor tiles and polished wood, rustling of her clothing and creaking of leather suddenly filling her ears. Her head and hands were full of seidr, of spells of seeing and hearing. Her foresight may have been limited, but practical enough. She had little use for prophecy, more for vigilance. The throne room was dark and empty. She hurried past it, shoving a surprised guard aside, question dying on his lips. The King was thankfully in the map room, idly shuffling through star charts. A raven was perched on his shoulder, another one on the table, and both cawed mockingly in her direction.

“There is an army of Jotnar on their way here,” she said without preamble. She was too old for her voice to tremble. “I believe I know what brought them.”

Odin was already on his feet before she even could finish the first sentence, his spear hanging loosely from his fingers. His single eye was focused, icy blue, impossible to read. She had decided centuries before that she refused to be cowed by him, which was perhaps reckless of her.

“And why would that be?”

“Because Laufey’s son has been missing since yesterday,” Freyja said. Men may have thought seidr and its users deceivers, but she had learned that at times truth served better than any amount of lies. She refused to be cowed. “I knew, and I said nothing. Your son asked me to help him find Loki, and I did.”

Odin went very still, tightening his fingers around the spear’s shaft. “You did not think it wise to tell me earlier.” His expression turned pensive for a second. He started walking toward the door, motioning for Freyja to follow him. “Did you think it may have been my doing?”

“It did cross my mind, yes,” Freyja said, matching his voice for dryness. “But that was not my reason. I have learned to trust you, remember.” There was time for truth and time for lies, and sometimes for the mixture of both, or time she could not tell one from the other. “I did it because I thought it would be best done quietly. Also I did this because Thor asked me to.” She thought it over for a moment, trying to ignore how dry her mouth was. “I did not think it would escalate so.”

“It escalated, because it had been planned.” Odin stopped in the middle of the throne room, turned around to look her in the eyes. They were nearly of a height, but it did not feel like a relief at all. “It must have been. We try not to make a habit of losing foreign princes without a reason.” He almost smiled, wry, mirthless.

“It cannot be Laufey’s doing,” Freyja said. “At least, I don’t believe it is.”

“Probably not. I shall give him a benefit of a doubt.” Odin drummed his fingers on the spear’s shaft, looking very old all of sudden. “My guess would be that it’s aimed at Laufey as well, and meeting him in force is the exact thing they want us to do.”

“But you cannot afford to do anything else,” Freyja said softly. “The warriors will be howling for blood.”

“I do not plan on indulging them,” Odin said. “Unless the situation calls for it. There is what I need you to do. Stay behind. Watch the warriors, and the nobility. They would never be able to take Laufeyson without help of someone from Asgard. I shall deal with Laufey.”

He started walking again, the sound of butt of his spear knocking against the floor in contrapunct to the sound of his steps. “Be prepared for anything.”

He disappeared behind the doorway, leaving her alone in the darkened room.

*

When Laufey had been younger, eons earlier, he had often dreamed about the moment when he would take his warriors through the Bifrost and across the narrow bridge that crossed the shimmering sea and led into Asgard. There would be the Winter in his hands, the winds howling behind his back and he would not stop until all the gold and red turned into black and white, into utter stillness under icy stars. It had been the folly of youth, and he had long since given up on this, but the memories remained, half-buried. He struggled not to drown in them, not to think about revenge justified or unjustified that was perhaps less about righteous anger and more about bloodlust.

The Watcher stared at them wordlessly, his expression unreadable, stared at dozens of Jotnar with their arms still bare of blades, with their ice and cold still held in check. They were more that they had been, Laufey thought, closer to what they had been in the past before the war brought nothing but ruin. Part of him would still see the nine realms encased in ice, the Aesir, the humans, all the others brought under, but mostly he just wanted to be under the domed roof of his own hall, to see his sons grow into maturity and hear his land singing. That was perhaps a folly as well.

“I have come to see my son,” he growled towards Heimdall, all teeth and not entirely faked anger. The Watcher remained impassive, unmoving, even when dozens of Jotnar walked past him. Laufey suppressed an urge to flinch. He was distantly aware he was taking a risk far greater than he should have, but found it difficult to care.

“The All-father will see you,” he heard in response, the voice grave and deep, echoing inside his head. It always made him uneasy how effortlessly powerful Heimdall was, even though Laufey managed to stop him once with all the power of the Casket. He would not look forward to a repeated experience.

There was a rumbling of horse hooves on the glassy surface of the bridge, and Laufey saw the Aesir army spilling through the gates, shining steel and silver and gold, carrying the smell of summer even in the chill winter air. He felt a smile curving his lips, involuntary. A humming of power alerted him to Odin’s presence in the vanguard, and the smile widened. It still made his blood run quicker. He remembered Odin from the past, when he had just become King, consorting with witches, hands full of magic and heart brimming with violence, and how he had not been so different from Laufey after all.

“I believe ‘tis far from customary to show on my doorstep in force, Laufey,” Odin called to him when they were close enough. On horseback he could look Laufey in the eye without craning his neck. The horse was familiar, cloud-grey and eight-legged, bulky muscle and thick fur, and suddenly Laufey missed his youngest son so much it hurt. He shook the feeling off. He had to look out for the sharp blade of Gungnir, for the gleam in Odin’s single eye.

“And I believe ‘tis far from customary to misplace my son when you offered him your hospitality,” Laufey said, motioning for his warriors to stay put. He walked toward Odin. The Aesir made no move to stop him, but also stayed in place, only the All-father nudged his horse to cross the remaining distance between him and Laufey. They were far enough from their armies when they met in the middle that they could talk undisturbed.

From up close Odin looked old. Laufey would never allow himself to be fooled into thinking him weak for all his distaste for the man, though.

“There are traitors under your roof, Laufey,” Odin said softly.

“Likewise, I believe” Laufey schooled his face into an expression of rage for the benefit of those who may be watching.

“They would never expect us to work together on that,” Odin said, his grim expression at odds with glee in his voice. “I would have liked to do this differently.”

“Aye.” Laufey did a quick count of the warriors in the Aesir army. His sources varied on how many men Odin exactly commanded, but there was no more than half of them on the bridge at most. “You left most of the army behind, didn’t you?”

“Under different circumstances I would put them all here, frighten you into leaving.”

“But then we would have been trapped here should the traitors attack us from both sides, from Asgard and from Jotunheim.” It was simple, but it may have worked. There was enough bad blood on both sides. “Lucky us I left enough warriors home to ruin the surprise. Otherwise I would have brought all of them with me. This army of mine is far from enough should I want to conquer Asgard.”

“Wouldn’t they know?” Odin frowned.

Laufey felt a smile creeping into his face again. “I made a lot of noise, commanded warriors in a hurry, only those who live close by. Desperation is an explanation as good as any. After all everyone knows how pathetically I love my son.”

Odin huffed a little at that. “Apparently your pathetic love, as you call it, is contagious. My own son set off to find yours as soon as he realized he was gone.” There was something brittle underneath the words, the anger and fear that felt very real. “Thor has more heart than sense, it appears. I should have known earlier.”

I have known for months, Laufey wanted to tell him, but reconsidered. The brief satisfaction would not be worth revealing how easily he had slipped into Asgard.

“I sent my eldest after Loki,” he said instead. “They should be back soon, I hope.”

“We have to stall until then,” Odin smiled grimly. “Or until our conspirators decide to reveal themselves. Argue a bit, perhaps. Be my guest and yell at me first.”

*

“You should have told me,” Freyja heard behind her. She sighed, turning away and reaching for a towel. The bath was quiet and deserted at this time of day and she thought she could be alone in there for a while. Red chalk clung stubbornly to her skin despite her best efforts. She would never admit to being nervous, just washed her hands over and over, and could not clean the redness from under her fingernails.

“I know. I am sorry.” She did her best to smile. “I didn’t want to make you choose, though.”

“Choose?” Frigga frowned. “Ah. You thought I would tell my husband.”

“Forgive me for being careful.” Freyja put the towel away and picked up her sword from where she had propped it against the wall. The grip was well worn and comfortable in her hand, and old leather of the belt and scabbard felt soft under her fingers. She buckled it around her hips, calmed by its familiar weight. “Odin is like a brother to me – I taught him seidr, remember, I would not do it for just anyone – but he has proved himself less than trustworthy from time to time.”

“I see.” Frigga pursed her lips, then nodded. Then Freyja noticed how simple her dress was, and that she wore a sword belt, too, a slender blade with a simple hilt, old scabbard banging against her leg. She laughed, helpless.

“You knew anyway, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” Frigga had a barest hint of a smile on her lips. “I would have appreciated hearing it from you, though.”

“I know. You are more than welcome to be angry with me.”

“I am,” Frigga said, grabbing her wrist and tugging until Freyja followed her out from the bathroom. “And I shall be for some time, but we have more urgent matters to take care of.”

“I know.” To be fair, she had not expected the situation to escalate so fast, and she coped poorly with not being able to trust her warriors completely. She would enjoy knocking some heads off just to relieve some tension. “It has been a long time since we saw last the Queen of Asgard like that,” she said, covering unease with a smile. “It suits you.”

Frigga shrugged, touching the hilt of her sword absentmindedly. “I am not this person anymore,” she admitted. “Likewise Odin is not a seidrmadr anymore. But sometimes you find yourself in need for skills you thought long forgotten. Come, it is time. We have our tasks, you and I.”

Freyja followed her, thinking once more about how she had positioned her einherjar so that those whom she deemed trustworthy could watch those she was not so sure of.

“Have you seen this, too?” She had little hope for an answer. Frigga gave her an inscrutable look.

“There is a long day ahead of us,” she said in the end, and it was as close to a clear answer as Freyja could hope to expect.

*

Loki lay in the dark and counted the seconds between the water drops.

He could not get an even number. Something always distracted him, a sting of pain, a muffled voice in the distance, the clinking of his manacles. They had been afraid to unbind him, he had heard, even when his voice was trapped and his magic shackled. It was funny enough, he supposed. Pity he could not laugh in their faces anymore.

His face felt mostly numb, alien, as if it belonged to somebody else and was only sewn over his skull. Sometimes his thoughts drifted away and he forgot why he was on the stone floor, why his arms were uncomfortably twisted over his head, why his clothes were dirty and soaked through, and why his head hurt so. He had an idea, or so he thought, from time to time, a shadow of one, but it faded before it formed fully and he could chase it.

An eternity had passed before he heard a humming sound that reverberated through his skull, set his teeth on edge. A hallucination, perhaps, a delirious imagining of a sick mind. It was stubborn, sunk his claws into him and held until he could not ignore it anymore, and finally opened his eyes in the darkness.

There was a shape, black and white, stark and shining to his eyes, and he could almost taste it beneath his tongue. It would be very easy, to reach and take, use what once had belonged to him and was returned to him so unexpectedly. He hesitated. It may have been a trap. He would have used something like this as a trap. The magpie screeched, its wings fluttering, and Loki grabbed for it just to silence it.

The flash of seidr was quick and painful, and blinded him for a moment. His mouth was full of blood and magic raged under his skin, but there was an outside element, something he could manipulate. Or it could blow in his face. He considered it and thought that it would hardly worsen the situation. He tightened his hold around the magpie and twisted, the construct falling apart easily, magic dripping and reforming into needles impossibly thin and sharp. They drove into iron manacles, into every crack and weakness, melted and froze again, shattering the metal with a scream. Loki curled around himself and breathed.

He was weak, unsteady on his feet, and he had nothing more than this handful of magic, everything else sealed away and sewn by the golden thread he could not tear, but he had enough of lying helpless in the dark. He gathered the magic around himself, muffling his footsteps as well as he could under the circumstances, and started walking, holding the cave wall to keep himself upright.

Twice he passed warriors, patrolling the corridor in twos, the Aesir in furs and armor, carrying swords and axes. They failed to notice him, hidden in the dark nook and cloaked with a sliver of his magic. He estimated he had minutes at most before someone noticed his disappearance, on the other hand he was held in a dark corner of a distant cavern, presumably helpless. He would make Skadi pay dearly for this foolishness.

His vision still swam and his knees shook, and he had no idea whether he was walking toward the exit or perhaps toward more enemies. His rage kept him standing, putting one foot in front of the other, because he may have done a lot wrong but never deserved this. He was so focused on simply staying conscious that he nearly missed the conversation in the cavern on the right, dear familiar voices, and then he wanted to scream and laugh because it was just not fair.

He crept into the cavern, saw Thor’s face covered in blood and Helblindi covered in a web of magic that had claws and teeth that sunk into skin. They noticed him mere moments later.

“I told you,” Helblindi said, all the humor lost between hard consonants and barely controlled rage. His face was like a mask and he had never looked more like Laufey.

“I am going to kill every last one of them myself,” Thor said softly, with none of his usual brashness. Loki shook his head, closed the distance, gathered his magic into a needle again, drove its point into Thor’s shackles. They were heavy and solid, much heavier than Loki’s had been, but he was desperate and knew he had no chances at all with Helblindi’s bonds, which reeked of magic. It seemed to take ages before they broke. The moment they fell to the floor Thor’s hands were on him, large, callused and warm, steadying him. Loki wanted to curl into his embrace and maybe sleep forever, but knew well enough it just would not do.

“Let me get this off,” Thor said roughly. Loki glanced at him in a way he hoped conveyed his annoyance. He scrambled to his feet, went to Helblindi, but touching the chains only confirmed what he first thought, he could never break them without his whole magic working. Helblindi seemed to know that.

“This is Skadi’s work, is it not?”

Loki nodded and watched his brother’s eyes narrow.

“I thought so. Good. Now I know who to look for.”

Loki rolled his eyes. Fates, these two fools could not manage a decent rescue attempt. Vengeance would be so above them they could not hope to reach it within an immortal’s lifetime. If they could get out of this alive, he would never let them hear the end of it.

“We need to find Fenrir, too,” Thor said from across the cavern where he went to retrieve Mjolnir. He gripped the hammer tight and Loki could almost taste the thunder from beneath the blood. He glared in Thor’s direction, promising him silently a long, long talk about involving one’s children in harebrained plans.

He may have done something actually inexcusable if not for an Aesir warrior that wandered into the cavern with an apparent intention to check on the prisoners. Mjolnir silenced him with a flash of lightning and a sickening crunch of breaking bones a moment too late to quell his scream for alarm. Thor cursed, catching the hammer flying back. Loki suppressed an urge to roll his eyes again, afraid that this time they may fall out of his skull.

“Just a moment,” Thor murmured, kneeling at the corpse’s side and retrieving a small knife with apparent distaste. “Come here.”

The string that bound Loki’s lips was slick and metallic, resisting the blade with a nauseating moan of unraveling magic. Thor tried to be gentle, but his hands shook and Loki felt blood trickling down his chin again, his nostrils full of its smell. His magic quivered just under his skin, trembled and hurt, sharper than his stretched lips when the first stitch finally snapped.

“I am sorry, so sorry,” Thor was whispering frantically, dragging the thread out slowly, and Loki could not stop a grunt of pain escaping his throat. Thor cut the next stitch and a flash of pain that was only partially physical nearly blinded Loki, snap and drag and then a sense of loss when the thread was pulled free. Thor kept apologizing, the knife was slick with blood and his fingers were dripping with it, smearing it across Loki’s cheeks.

Later he thought it did not took so long at all. It only felt like it did.

There were tears running down Thor’s face, little paths in blood and dirt, but then he was finished, knife dropped to the floor, sliced bits of golden threat twisting and still shimmering. Loki felt his magic rising to the surface, a raging storm, and could not help but kiss Thor with lips still bloody and tender, nothing more than a brush of mouths.

Helblindi coughed from across the room. “Would you mind?”

Loki flexed his fingers and snapped them, breaking the chains with perhaps more force that was absolutely necessary. Moving his mouth still hurt and his voice was rusty and barely audible, but the words tore out nonetheless. He would never allow himself to be silenced again.

“Shall we wreak some havoc, then?”


	10. Chapter 10

There was a sound of quick footsteps behind her, heavy boots against the stone. Freyja didn't turn around from where she stood on the armaments. Below her in the courtyard her warriors were taking their positions, weapons and armor gleaming in the pale sunlight. They were spread across the city and at the palace gates, ostensibly the line of defense against the army of frost giants.

“My lady?” The woman behind her cleared her throat.

“You are back, I see. So soon?”

“We were attacked.” Sif stood beside her, leaned on the crenelation, heavy armored gloves scraping against the stone. Her hair was combed back and tightly braided, a long sword banging against her leg. “There were Aesir and Jotnar alike.” She smiled, just a quirk of her mouth. “They must have expected an easy target.”

Freyja chuckled. “A mistake, then. There was no need to continue the ruse anyway.”

“We came back as quickly as we could.”

Freyja motioned toward where the armies stood, to two lone figures in the empty stretch of the bridge between them. She had drawn circles of symbols on the crenelation with red chalk mixed with blood, and tapped her fingers absentmindedly against them, feeling a rush of magic through her, dark and musky. She had raised spells of seeing and hearing, a tangle of spy magic that wound around Asgard and no one was the wiser. One day she really should mention this to Odin and Frigga.

Sif winced when shouts tore through air, loud as if the kings stood just beside them, then frowned. “I do not understand. If Laufey knows, why all he does is stand there? And the All-father, too?”

“They both must know of the conspiracy,” Freyja said. “And now they stall for time. Wait for the attack or for Thor and Loki to come back.”

“Laufey will not fight if his son is kept hostage,” Sif said, tapping her fingers against the stone.

“Neither will Odin,” Freyja said.

She bared her teeth, unsmiling. She noticed the Warriors Three in the courtyard, wearing freshly cleaned armor. Hogun had the slightest limp, Volstagg’s steps were just a bit unsteady, and Fandral had a dark smudge of frostbite across his cheek, but otherwise they seemed unharmed. They noticed Sif and waved, as cheerful as they could be under the circumstances, and she waved back, smiling. None of them served in Freyja’s army, and their position at court was dubious most of the time, but Freyja was glad of their company nonetheless. At least she could trust in their weapons and their loyalty.

“I could use you here more,” she told Sif, more to pass the time than anything. “Once you tire of never ending journeys across the realms. There are not many new einherjar anymore, and you know how the nobles get. As for the Valkyries, well,” she snorted, “they give me the chills.”

Sif gave her an exasperated look. “With all due respect, my lady, my answer remains the same as always.”

“A pity. Well, it was worth a try.”

They stood in silence for several moments, then Sif sighed and shook her head. “You of all people should understand,” she said. “I fought far too long for what I have to give it up so easily.”

“You were never the one to choose the easy path,” Freyja said, fond in spite of herself. She still remembered young Sif, the girl who could never be content with what was offered to her.

“No,” Sif said, brushing the pommel of her sword with her fingers briefly. “I was to wed Thor once, remember.”

“I do.” Freyja chuckled. “By the Tree, your father was so miserable when nothing came out of it.”

“He still is, I suppose. We did not part on good terms. In fact, we did not part on speaking terms.”

“His loss.”

“I like Thor well enough.” Sif shrugged. “Back then it did not seem such a bad prospect for the future. There was time--well, it was pleasant enough while it lasted, but we agreed not to speak about it anymore, remain friends. I would not be the Prince’s betrothed, or the King’s wife, the shieldmaiden who lay down her sword to pick up a distaff. I would not be the Queen of Asgard, no matter how proud this path is.”

“Not an easy choice nonetheless.”

Freyja had offered to teach seidr to young Sif, once. She sometimes took daughters of the Asgardian nobility as apprentices, for magic was often the simplest way for a woman to tear herself free, to carve out something for herself. Not many of those sorceresses chose to serve in the army, though, not among the warriors who dismissed them as weak and their craft as cowardly. Seidr was smoke and mirrors at its most basic form, granted, but it would never make its users liars or cowards by itself, which was something most men never grasped. Sif refused magic and took up the sword instead, kept refusing those who tried to force her choices on anything. Freyja supposed she could respect that, even though for someone who rejected any kind of deception outright Sif still believed she lived in a story.

“I would make it again,” Sif said, shrugging. “I have not come here to talk about this, though. I thought about something when I saw Svadilfari and his elder brother, and Brokk.”

“What of them?”

“They are the ones who always spoke against Thor, and I saw them consorting together often enough.”

“Wait,” Freyja frowned. “It was such a long time ago – was it Brokk’s eldest whom Thor challenged and killed in the judgment ring?”

“It was his bastard son. Otherwise I would have remembered sooner.” Sif’s face was drawn with worry. “Brokk renounced him publicly when it happened, but there is no love lost between him and Thor. I think if someone was to plot against Thor, it would be him. The Aesir who attacked us – I recognized one of them, and he was one of Brokk’s men.”

There was a sudden shout in the courtyard below, cut short.

“Right,” Freyja murmured, touching her sword to make sure it was there, feeling her seidr swelling beneath her tongue, “right. It would be a good time to move.”

Sif drew her own blade, the point sharp and blindingly bright. “Lead the way, my lady.”

*

It was rather thankless to be a middle son, Byleistr supposed, especially the one with the likes of his brothers. Between Helblindi’s brashness and Loki, well, being Loki, he usually remained halfway in the shadows. It may have suited him more often than not. He only rarely would bear the brunt of Laufey’s displeasure should they do something inadvisable, for instance, and they left him to his own devices most of the time to do as he pleased, which was mainly tend the gardens, and try to avoid getting into trouble.

A slightly disconcerting side effect was that most people underestimated him.

He was crouching on the ground on an overgrown path in a remote corner of the garden, wiry iron weeds twisting over the ground, glittering and half-frozen. There was something growing beneath them, fragile knife-like leaves, paper-thin and razor-sharp, still half-curled. Perhaps there was a flower underneath, one of those rare, midnight blue flowers that grew on dark branches and died with the next turning of the moon.

Weeds were stone-hard under his fingers, unyielding, but he had long since learned patience and gave little heed to drops of blood he was leaving on sharp-edged stems and narrow leaves. He coaxed out the one he wanted, admiring steely blue gleam on leaves and petals in the faint moonlight, green reflections of aurora on jagged edges. Then he felt a tug somewhere underneath his ribs, a half-formed thought pressing into his mind. It felt as if someone trod on his fingers, or walked over his bones somewhere in the far future when all what was left of him was a voice in the wind. He breathed in and heard fallen branches cracking at the entrance of the garden. A thin young frozen tree shattered, brushed with a careless hand, a bundle of leaves broke under a foot. Byleistr rose and smiled to himself, enjoying taste of power under his tongue. He would hate to be left with it for too long, but it felt good while it lasted.

“Here, come here,” he heard, voices both high and gruff, flaring with fear and excitement. He made no effort to hide, just stood there, brass rings and topazes gleaming high on his horns, his markings and scars thorns had made on his skin shining white. His hands were empty, and he wore no weapon. An easy target for insurgents who must have been seeking Laufey’s warriors and found none.

“The princeling is here,” someone shouted, voice rumbling and familiar with its heavy consonants and rolling r’s. There were shadows on the path between the trees, then shapes. The warriors, at least a dozen of them, led by a giant even among the Jotnar, one who wore bear skins over wide chest that was marred with scars so thickly that his markings were all but invisible. His horns were shattered just over his forehead, and one of his deep-seated eyes was missing.

“Greetings,” Byleistr said, soft and mild. He stood his ground even when sharp blades of ice swords pointed at him. He smiled, as meek as he usually did, and trusted in Thrym’s foolishness not to notice a telltale bluish light somewhere around his eyes, deep in his mouth.

“Who left you here, little boy?” Thrym said, black lips curling to reveal rows of fangs. “Left you here to die?”

“I came here myself,” Byleistr said, affecting a shudder. He felt more rebels spilling into the gardens, at least thirty of them. Presence of their own loyal people remained like a sliver of coolness around his solar plexus, still unmoving. Laying in wait.

Some of Thrym’s warriors seemed nervous, glancing left and right into a black tangle of iron branches and stone tree trunks, into glittering flowers and leaves grinding against each other with a metallic screech. Their leader paid no attention to his surroundings, though, focused too strongly on Byleistr, and Byleistr could almost hear him tasting his revenge for every slight Laufey and his kin did to him over the years, could almost feel the desire for power. He shifted, craning his neck to look Thrym in the eyes. He was relatively certain that Thrym would not kill him on the spot, not before he could gloat.

“How does it feel, to be abandoned to die by your blood kin?”

Byleistr made no move, and gave no answer. Thrym shifted, almost imperceptibly, as if unnerved, but his blade was as wide and sharp as ever, and seeing muscles tense on his arms and shoulders Byleistr had no trouble believing Thrym could cut him easily in half.

There were other warriors spreading throughout Laufey’s stronghold, and in some places fighting had already broken out. He felt blood spilling on the ground, but could not tell whose, rebels or those who remained loyal. There was still a little time left before he could do what he was meant to, and there were still more rebels walking into the gardens. He shifted through his perception, looking for familiar images, but found only vague contours of faces, of blades. Byleistr would have liked to see Skadi inside his garden, too.

Thrym moved, blade flashing, and a narrow cut opened across Byleistr’s chest, blood bubbling blue, then freezing. There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the rebels, someone marginally smarter than Thrym who was laughing in scorn, and Byleistr realized with a sigh that was it, and he could wait no more.

“I am not alone,” he said. “I am never alone.”

It was a gamble on Laufey’s part to leave without the major part of his power, but it would be diminished anyway on Asgardian soil, and he wanted someone trustworthy back in Jotunheim. Without the breath of Winters between his hands Byleistr would have little chance to survive the attack. It was easier this way, neater, and Laufey was practical above all.

When the familiar blue light twisted and coiled between his palms, even Thrym took a step back, then shook himself, raised his blade and roared, launching himself at Byleistr. A wave of ice stopped him halfway, the point of his blade only inches from Byleistr’s throat. It was easy to draw and pull them, to use what he knew and what was intimately familiar. He could never shape ice in a way Laufey could, but he spent years elbows deep in iron and stone that formed his garden, and it responded to him eagerly enough through the Casket. His trees, and leaves, and flowers had edges as sharp as any sword and were equally thirsty for blood.

They should not have underestimated him so, after all he was the one who knew this ground most intimately and could draw on the link to the realm, but then, could they really have expected that Laufey would agree to part with the Casket? Perhaps not. Byleistr ducked under Thrym’s uncoordinated swing and reached to awaken more of his plants. He tried to close his ears and not hear the screaming, hideous sound of rending flesh and crushed bones. For a heartbeat he wished, desperately, that there was someone else who could have done it. He wanted nothing of it, no blood on his hands or on the ground.

Everything quieted slowly. His vision cleared and he could see his warriors fighting the rebels, the few who had not been strangled or torn apart by his power. The Casket settled, vibrating, almost purring, as if satisfied, full to bursting with blood. Byleistr sent it away with a shudder. His father had tried to warn him, to describe how it felt, but Byleistr had not listened, bent on vengeance. He needed to do something, anything to help his kin, and his bond with the land made channeling and directing the Casket’s power easy enough.

Anyway it was over for him, he supposed. The garden crawled slowly back, only the red glint on thorns and stems betrayed what had happened. Byleistr slowly loosened his fists, feeling the weight of the Casket settle over his heart. He would never want the power, never.

“My prince,” one of the warriors came to him, his blade still halfway visible and his claws blood-red. “There are no more of them left here, but we have found seidr circles, and some of them may have left the realm.”

Byleistr looked up, to the black sky and green sliver of the moon. It was a fair night, sharply cold, then down, at Thrym’s corpse. The giant Jotunn’s spine was bent in half, his blade shattered to pieces. Thorns grew through his skull, a single flower bloomed where his one good eye had been, and where his stomach had been Byleistr could see white edges of ribs and red mess of entrails, black petals and coils of stems.

“Just as the King predicted,” Byleistr said softly, tearing his gaze away with difficulty. “Search the palace. Make sure there is none of them left.”

The warrior nodded and walked away, bellowing orders.

“Then we wait,” Byleistr said to himself, picking up the blood-drenched flower from Thrym’s corpse.

*

Odin’s throne room seemed eerie in the dark, surprisingly alien, as if someone had taken it far from its familiar place. Frigga walked across the floor, the soft sound of her footsteps echoing across the empty space. Moonlight spilling through high windows did not reach the far walls, turned gold and red into washed-out grays. It was cold, and she could not hear the fighting clearly, but the memory – premonition – memory was clear enough in her head. She had been seeing blood seeping through her weaving for months, all brilliant red across the fabric. There were swords dancing across her tapestries until ringing of steel against steel spilt into her dreams and into the waking world.

It would have been nerve-wracking, seeing and not being able to speak, but she had chosen to bear this burden willingly. All knowledge required sacrifices. She and Odin, they were of a kind, only the object of sacrifice differed, where he had paid with his body she had paid with necessity of staying aside. Perhaps it was worse than a noose around one’s neck and endless nine days hanging off the tree branch while the realms turned, perhaps not. It did give a clarity of sight nevertheless, and the element of surprise when she was invariably underestimated.

The first sounds of fighting started outside. She heard her guards’ nervous talk behind the doors to the throne room, itching to join the battle. There were faces she remembered, ones that had appeared between the wayward threads on the loom, rebels and loyal warriors alike, fallen and covered in blood, screaming mouths and eyes opened wide. She mourned them all in the silence of her own head. There were necessary sacrifices, and there was needlessly throwing one’s life away for a misguided purpose.

The rebels’ plan was simple, almost too simple, and hung on too many old misfortunes, on old hatreds still burning. It may have worked, she supposed. Position the einherjar, the Valkyries and the nobles among the loyal soldiers, lure most of the army to the bridge and take the palace before anyone realized, then attack the armies on the bridge from both sides while the leaders were fighting over Loki’s disappearance. She could almost see the leaders’ faces, could almost make them out in the pattern on her loom, but they kept slipping between cold trickles of seidr. It ached that she was forbidden from speaking, that she could not bring it up to Odin or Freyja, see if they could reach through the deception and see.

She did have her suspicions, of course, but little to no ground to act on them without breaking the rules of her seeing. It was rather vexing, she supposed. The waiting, too. She had seen her own future on the loom, and while nothing was set in stone, it made her impatient for things to happen already.

The door opened and the warriors spilled into the throne room. Three of them, she noticed calmly, one of her own guards with blood on his blade. She turned to them, hands empty. One death and one betrayal, twin threads on the loom, snapped in half with a careless gesture.

“Alone at such a time, my Queen?”

“Svadilfari.” She acknowledged him with a terse nod. “Not a surprise, then.”

The lean, long-faced man blinked, but regained his composure within moments. He carried a sword, long and thin, with a matted blade and well-worn handle. His armor bore signs of long use, too, and he moved with an unconscious grace of long-time duelist. Frigga judged him slightly better than her.

“Are you still angry about your father?” She asked quietly, following his movement with her eyes. “Still claiming that my husband cheated him?”

Svadilfari snorted, shaking his head, but she knew his lie before he could utter it. “‘Tis a time long gone. Nothing that matters. What matters here, now, is you.” He was two steps away from her, the point of his blade aimed at her chest. Frigga did not flinch. Two other rebels circled her until they were out of her field of vision, and the one who had been her guard avoided her eyes.

“It seems excessive for a leader to ambush a lone woman in a dark chamber,” she said.

“Just cautious.” Svadilfari smiled, and his smile had too many teeth in it. His sword rested in the hollow of her throat, drew a drop of blood she barely felt.

“Commendable.” She met his eyes straight on, unsmiling. “Futile, in the end, but caution always deserves praise. Such a rare sight under those roofs, it would seem.”

“True.” There was a flicker of uncertainty in his voice, caused perhaps by her words, or because she stood under his sword unmoving. “I advised against excessive bloodshed, you know.”

Frigga was silently thankful that so many men loved to brag.

“You would call it inelegant,” she said aloud. A thread spinning, thinning and at last tearing in half, she had seen so many of them and yet remembered every one with perfect clarity. “But it appears excessive bloodshed is exactly what you got.”

The screaming outside intensified and then died down. Svadilfari’s eyes darted to the side, just for a second. The threads were coming together, she recalled, tangled and then some of them went back to their proper place to run their courses. Time was up, then. She moved from under Svadilfari’s blade while he was still distracted, rolled to the side and when she was back on her feet, she had her sword in hand. She lunged high, a sweeping cut from the right, and he was a fraction of a second too slow to raise his own blade. Sharpened steel met almost no resistance where it cut into his neck, severed through tendons and bone. Frigga thought she could hear a thread snapping in the distance. So she was better after all.

Two other rebels were closing on her and she barely managed to avoid the first strike. Defending herself from two opponents at once could prove problematic, but if she assessed the time right, there was help on the way. She heard armored boots against the floor and shouting, and then there were Asgardian warriors spilling into the chamber, blades gleaming. Sif, who was leading them, tore through the rebel’s defences in a heartbeat, sent his sword clattering to the floor and his head cleanly off his shoulders. The other rebel fell moments later.

Frigga lowered her sword carefully. There was so much red on the floor tiles, the air smelled of death, and that she had seen it did not help at all. She had used herself as a bait deliberately to lure the rebellion leaders out, in part it worked, and that was what mattered for now.

“My lady? Are you all right?”

“Quite. Thank you.” She smiled at the shieldmaiden, trying for reassuring. “Good timing.”

“We have dealt with the rebels in the courtyard,” Sif said. “It is far from over, though. There is fighting in the palace itself, and at the training rings, and at the gates.”

I know, Frigga wanted to say, but knew better than that.

*

Skadi retreated further into a nook in the corridor, throwing a bit of seidr in a sheet over himself to confuse the shadows, hide himself from sight. Screaming and moans were still ringing in his ears, crunching of bone and breaking twigs, frozen earth shattering as trees uprooted themselves and twisted their branches around flesh, as they grew and coiled and crushed. He had underestimated Laufey, underestimated Loki, underestimated them all until blood flowed in a wide river over the ground, stained the snow and his hands until they were black and dripping. He had seen Thrym’s mutilated body, corpses of his warriors and his kin piled knee high, and all he could have done was stop himself from retching.

Only thing blacker and deeper than his horror was hatred, and he clung to it as he heard the remains of their army being slaughtered. It moaned and howled inside his head, this disbelief, how could Laufey leave the Casket behind? Did he not trade a child for it? Skadi had miscalculated, and grievously, and it would cost him his head, cost him his revenge, cost him the rebellion. Cost him the army, dozens of Jotnar trampled into the snow until it turned into bloody mud.

He breathed in and felt more ice encroaching and reaching through the ground. There was not much time before he would be discovered too, probably strangled on the spot or left alive to be judged by Laufey later, none of which held particular appeal. His insides twisted, trembling leaving his hands. His mind was suddenly very white, and he knew he would not survive, but he still had his magic, and could turn the victory very bitter indeed.

There was a slight possibility Laufey would be amenable to talk. Perhaps Skadi could trade his life for Loki. Or perhaps he could stay, save someone, anyone from his army instead of leaving them behind to day. He considered it for a split second, but his mind was burning with hatred, and he knew Laufey would never let him go. The path to Midgard was still open, and he reached for it moments before there was shouting in the corridors and power of the Casket grabbing for him.

The caves were damp, dark and silent. The Aesir whom he had brought to guard Loki were nowhere to be found, and he felt a cold tangle uncoil in his stomach. There was the slightest taste of metal in the air, the smell just before the storm. Skadi hurried, summoning his own ice on the run, blades growing in jagged spikes along his forearm. The torches had burned out and nobody went out to greet him.

He found out what had happened sooner than he expected. They were all in the main cave, another swath of corpses, limbs tangled and faces still frozen in expressions of surprise and terror. He saw crushed bones and lightning burns, claw marks and long slashes already frozen over. Not far from there he found a length of broken chain, one he had fashioned himself to bind the wolf, and when he ran to the prison cave, he found nothing but shattered iron and cut pieces of golden strings. He was too late, again, and once more he had miscalculated.

It came to him that he still lived in the past, that he had set a trap for a boy he had expected Loki to be. That he had expected Laufey to be a warlord clinging to any scrap of power he could lay his hands on. That he would never have his revenge now, not in the slightest of forms, that he would be hunted now and killed eventually, a dishonorable, ugly death in some realm under a bright foreign sky.

They were all long gone, he could sense it, and the corpses were stiff with rigor mortis, so he probably had very little time left. He doubted that the Aesir had much more success with their own rebellion. There was still a possibility of running; he had a head start, and it would be days before they started looking for him. He could find Farbauti, plead with him to hide him, perhaps start anew, sow some more discord. Farbauti himself had not been one of the conspirators, he hated the Aesir almost as much as he did Laufey, but his kin had sent them warriors, sent them blessings.

It would be like admitting defeat once more.

He could still sense a trace of a spell that must have brought Loki back to Asgard, a blood-red string that cut through the walls of the realms. It was easy enough to follow it, twist it a bit, so he would not land in the middle of the bridge between two armies. The wave of heat nearly knocked him off his feet. He was inside the palace, and it was like a cracked golden shell, shining bright to the point of being blinding. There was a sound of footsteps approaching, and of ringing steel further away, so he cloaked himself in seidr once again and ran along the corridor, one purpose clear in mind. If he could not reach Laufey or Loki, he could hurt them in another way. He knew of someone else, someone weak and defenseless.

His magic burned high inside him, and led him effortlessly through the palace. No one thought to raise shields and disguises to fool seidr, and he was silently thankful for one thing that went right that day.

*

Hel woke up with her mind feeling battered and tender, bruised thoughts chasing each other. She remembered the Well of Urd in startling, vivid detail, the current of power running through her body and then disappearing without a trace, leaving her hollow and aching. The power tasted of red and black, savory and rich in her mouth, and she longed to feel it again, though her every instinct screamed to leave it alone, that nothing was worth the pain.

Her door creaked and she moved to rise, her limbs sluggish and tired. She expected to see a servant girl, or Freyja, or if the Fates were kind – what a jest – perhaps her father back and whole. She smelled winter and blood. Words of greeting died on her tongue when she saw her visitor’s face, and it all made sudden, terrifying sense.

“It was you,” she said, voice and face numb. “It was your fault.”

Skadi smiled, a skull’s manic grin. “Aye,” he rasped. The blade on his arm spliced into dozens of jagged needles, growing longer with a screeching, tortured sound. “My fault and my plan that fell apart.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to scream, when she felt cold, sharp touch on her throat. “Shh,” Skadi whispered. “No need to be so loud. Someone could hear you and come here, and where would be fun in that.”

She glared at him, searching her knowledge of seidr frantically for any scraps that may have been of help. A knife formed between the fingers of a hand she still kept under the covers, a small blade with a razor-sharp edge, not unlike the ones her father used. Skadi completely missed the sigh of seidr.

“I am going to die,” Skadi whispered, leaning toward her until his face was inches from hers. “And soon, I think. ‘Tis no fault of yours, whelp, that I happen to wish your father the worst, and you are small and alone.”

She tightened her fingers around the handle of her dagger, but knew with perfect clarity she could never rise it in time, much less hurt Skadi before his blade tore through her throat. His smile widened and crooked, more a grimace than any expression of joy, pressed forward and she closed her eyes, sorry more than anything, sorry for what it would do to her father, sorry for her own life that he had torn from magic and which proved to be so useless and short in the end.

The air congealed, suddenly thick and clammy, pressing hard on her skin. She waited for pain, but none came. She opened her eyes, tentatively, almost unwilling, breathing in air that seemed to be made of sawdust, and she saw the room in a silver haze, Skadi frozen and unmoving, his blade pressed to her throat. Behind him stood a Jotunn, someone whom she had never seen in the waking world.

“Skuld,” she said, voice small and young even to her own ears.

The Norn dragged his fingers through Skadi’s hair, his bracelets clinking against each other. “Greetings, child,” he said quietly, scarred features contorted into a grimace Hel could not decipher.

“Why are you here?” Hel tried to draw back from Skadi’s blade, but found that her muscles would not move. First drop of blood was trickling down her throat, impossibly slow.

“I told you we still know something of mercy,” Skuld said, long fingers cradling Skadi’s skull now. The sorcerer seemed to be unaware of what was happening, as if the whole world froze and the only creatures left conscious were Hel and the Norn. “Also I told you I play favorites, though I should not, perhaps.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“Did you know I became a Valkyrie before any of us became the Norns?” Skuld asked instead, and carried on before Hel could answer. “I wanted power, I wanted freedom, and it was a different time, so I went to the All-father and told him I knew enough of death and duty. I rode the battlefields and collected the dead for a thousand years, but the duty grew too heavy in the end, and to free myself my brothers and I took on an even heavier set of manacles.” He was silent for a moment. “The power binds you as much as it frees you. I should have never sought it, but this is what happened, and what shall be.”

“I did not know that,” Hel said, forcing words through a completely dry throat.

“I could never stop being a Valkyrie,” Skuld said, smiling slightly. “Thus I am here. Playing favorites.”

“Are you here to take me, then?”

“If you wished,” Skuld said, quiet and solemn. He drew back the cover, revealed the dagger still between Hel’s clenched fingers. “I could take you, give you a place among the einherjar. You would have died holding a weapon, and it is enough.”

“I am no warrior,” Hel said, voice tight. “No servant of Odin.”

“I know,” Skuld said, not unkindly. He smoothed a lock of hair off Hel’s forehead. “‘Tis not a bad life. But I understand.” He hesitated. “Though the halls of Nilfheim are dark and lonely. No sky over your head, no earth or snow under your feet, just dust and voices of the dead.”

“Is that it, then?” Hel asked, and could not help her voice rising, a note of panic and anger. It hit her like a punch to the stomach, the unfairness of it. “The choice I am left with? All because of a thousand-years-old hatred and a childish grudge?”

“Yes.” Skuld looked away, his lips white and unhappy. “I am sorry. There are – rules and bonds I must follow.”

“You said you could play favorites,” Hel said, blinking away stupid, unwanted tears. “Bend the rules. I would – I would do anything. Whatever you wanted. Just let me stay.”

“Oh, child, the realms are so seldom fair.”

“I did this already. Made a bargain, paid with blood. There must be something, anything.”

“Do you think a little blood would be enough to cheat death?”

“I should have never been alive in the first place.” Hel felt her lips curving, a mockery of a smile. “I am made of magic, and if I die, I will just crumble into seidr, blood and earth. You could make an exception, find some use for me.”

Skuld was silent for a long moment.

“Fair enough,” he said in the end. “But do remember I warned you.”

*

Helblindi’s amulet smelled too strongly of Angrboda’s magic, of plant matter and sickly sweet aroma of rotting meat, with a metallic aftertaste like iron and blood. It awoke too many memories, a visceral response in the back of Loki’s head, something between longing, regret, overwhelming relief it was all in the past. He would have opened the way himself, but he used too much of his magic to deal with the rest of the guards in the cave, and he still felt sickly and weak, his mouth tender. Wounds around it kept opening even though he had tried to heal it. Healing never was his strong suit, and he could do little more than staunch the worst of the bleeding until he could speak a bit, painfully and with difficulty.

It had been brutal what he had done, no finesse at all, no illusions to fool the eyes or clever tricks, just rough-edged ice and razor-sharp knives, anything to fell an enemy and move on, to try not to care about the blood. It was smeared on his hands and arms up to his elbows, on his face, he breathed it in and out, and even though he still trembled with remembered pain, he had found himself calling his magic only reluctantly. It was too much, too much red and steel, too much violence that felt undeserved. Even the need for vengeance felt hollow and bitter.

Fenrir never left his side, silent even after they had removed the muzzle and chains. Loki should have been used to his silences, he should have. At other times Fenrir could spend entire days without uttering a single word, and that would not have worried him. Now, it did seem ominous, but he was thankful for his presence all the same, thankful for them all, for his foolish brother and even more foolish lover. He did nothing to deserve them after all.

“It should not be long now,” Helblindi said, hopeful. He shot Loki a look he knew only too well, but it seemed a waste to force words through his mouth full of blood. He knew what Helblindi would say to him, how he would plead that he came home with him, and he tethered on the verge of agreeing, or at least entertained the delusion.

“I would not be so sure,” Thor said, unnaturally grim. Loki agreed with him, but said nothing.

Crossing the realms through Angrboda’s magic was unlike his own, cloying, almost suffocating, with almost no vision at all and instead surrounded by familiar smells of the swamp, iron trees and herbs the witch grew, of wet wolf fur and rotting meat. The path surface was uneven, and he stumbled now and then, every time his heart rising to his throat and darkness almost swallowing him as he struggled to find his footing again. The air seemed to stick to his lungs, magic stringing him along in sudden jerky movements.

The darkness ripped apart with no warning at all and spat them out in the middle of a battlefield. The fighting seemed to be dying already, though, reduced to a series of separate duels, clatter of steel almost drowned by moaning of the injured and dying. There were Jotnar and Aesir alike on both sides, as was to be expected, but the battle was ending all the same.

Somebody noticed them and charged with a shout, but Loki knocked him over the edge of the bridge almost effortlessly, throwing a chunk of ice the size of his head in the direction of the As. In the last second Loki recognized him, the broad-shouldered, bearded man with an axe, the one who had held him down when Skadi had been sewing his lips together, but he felt little more than a faint twinge of relief. Nothing about a just revenge, and he marvelled distantly at his indifference.

“Loki!” Someone was shouting, voice rough and thankfully familiar, and then Loki was engulfed in an embrace, rough edges and ice rapidly falling apart. He clung back for dear life, heedless of pain numbing his mouth, of dull ache of tired muscles. Laufey was bleeding from a shallow gash across his forehead, just below his horns, but appeared otherwise unharmed, and the grip of his fingers on Loki’s shoulders was hard and desperate.

They had to separate after a moment when an Aesir warrior charged at them, probably a gesture of desperation more than anything. There was little chance to talk for the next several minutes, or perhaps hours, Loki could not tell the passage of time anymore, what mattered were pieces of magic he seemed to carve from himself with the effort that felt impossible, but he pressed on. He could see his father alongside him, silent and towering, and Helblindi watching his flank, could hear the roar of thunder ahead of them, familiar red cloak and golden hair. The bridge was slippery under their feet, and it felt like ages before they reached the gates of Asgard.

For a moment Loki could not quite realize that it was over.

“That would be all,” Laufey huffed, letting his blade fall apart. “They attacked us from both sides, from the palace and some of them from Jotunheim. Not as many as we feared, though.” He smiled, quick and mirthless from beneath the layer of dirt on his face. “Not nearly enough.”

“A relief,” Loki said, unselfconscious about the fact that he needed his father’s support to stay upright. “Did you kill Skadi?”

Laufey tensed. “No. In fact, I have not seen him at all since the fighting started.”

It could have been nothing. Skadi was a coward, he may have run, or he may have been killed in the confusion of battle here or in Jotunheim. But there was a nauseating feeling of unease in his stomach, and he wove a spell just to be sure. There was a lingering trace of Skadi’s magic still on his skin and it was easy to follow it. It took Loki a longer moment than usual to shuffle through the imprints of power in the air and on the ground, and when he made sense of it at last, he started running without a conscious thought, the ache in his muscles and pain in his face forgotten.

The corridors and stairs seemed to stretch into infinity. Someone was shouting behind him, there were people who tried to stop him, but he could not hear him through the roaring of blood in his ears, could not allow himself to be delayed. Burning ice-blue signature of Skadi’s power was etched behind his eyes, its sharp smell filled his nostrils, tendrils of thin smoke and frost flowers followed him. His chambers were suddenly so far away, too far away, and he could not force his feet to move quicker no matter how he tried.

The door was ajar, and seidr was rolling out in thick waves, at once familiar and strange, and its sickly sweet aroma made him want to retch. His blade formed above his fingers almost without conscious input from him, fingers of his other hand curled around a handle of a thin dagger, but he had an almost palpable feeling of being too late.

Skadi was hunched over Hel in her bed, broken spikes of his blade piercing delicate skin of her throat. There was something wrong about him, something important, and for a heartbeat Loki could swear he saw silver haze around him, silver strings that bound his wrists, his tongue and his magic. He had never thought he could move so quickly, his knife cutting the air with a screech, his blade raising almost on its own. Skadi had no chance to move as the ice sunk into his flesh, gave a little strangled cry when a wave of Loki’s seidr followed, green mist and fire fed by the rolling mess of nausea and hatred in his stomach. Then he was grabbing for Skadi’s hair, his neck, wrenching him back, and this one time he was not sorry at all about the blood on his hands.

He sagged to his knees afterwards, choking on the smell of burning flesh and burning magic. He gripped the bedside until his fingers hurt, breathed in and out for a moment. Hel tangled her hand in his hair, said nothing for a moment, sickly pale and trembling. Silver strings were wound around her neck and wrists like necklaces and bracelets.

“It’s fine,” Loki murmured, to himself, to her. “It’s over.”

“Oh, Father,” Hel said in a small voice.

*

They had no chance to talk for a while after. Asgard seemed to settle into a sort of shocked numb aftermath, eerie quiet descending onto courtyards filled with makeshift barricades, paving stones slick with blood and melting ice, corridors from where the dead were still being carried away. Laufey had disappeared somewhere to talk with the All-father, outwardly unfazed, but Loki had noticed the almost-limp which appeared only when he was distressed. He would never show any more obvious sign of weakness. It was bad enough that there had been an attempt on his throne, and the fact that the Aesir had tried to do the same to Odin did not make things much better.

Loki refused to leave his daughter’s bedside, even when she fell back asleep. Thor told him what had happened, and what they had seen at the Well of Urd, and then stayed with him, touching him now and then, feather-light touches, reverent, as if he still could not believe Loki was back. Otherwise he was silent, and as unusual as it was, Loki was thankful for it.

There was still a silver glow over Hel, a shimmer that trickled and coalesced into threads and chain links, a half-unreal jewelry flickering with light. As much as he tried, he could not sense its origin, though he knew it must have been a lingering trace from the Norns’ magic. She would not tell him what it was. She knew, she had said as much, but then she had fallen asleep in the middle of the sentence and he had been keeping his watch over her since. She looked like a child again, though there was a tension to her mouth, in the way she curled around herself under the blankets.

At one point he must have fallen asleep as well. He woke up aching all over, blood drying on his chin where one of the wounds must have opened from his sloppy healing. Thor was gone, and it was fully dark outside. Someone had covered him with a blanket and took his shoes off, left him a cup of watered-down wine and some bread on the table. Loki sighed, pressed his hand to his mouth, feeding his last scraps of seidr into the healing spell. The wounds were nearly closed, more numb than painful – perhaps a healer had been there as well when he had been asleep – but he suspected they would scar anyway with so much magic involved and his own clumsy spells that may have made it worse. He cared little either way.

Hel stirred and opened her eyes, smiled weakly when she saw him.

“Welcome back,” she murmured. His hand tightened involuntarily around her fingers.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You should not have done this, but thank you. Please never do anything like this again.”

“I need you to listen,” Hel said, struggling to sit up. She looked sideways, avoided his gaze. “I may not have much time.” She sounded apologetic. “But it would be enough for explanation and goodbyes, all right?”

“What do you mean?” Loki’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Goodbyes?”

“Yes,” she said, and once more sounded helpless. “There is something I need to do. I have been thinking--”

He was cold, cold all over, and could not let go of her hand. “What?”

“I need to leave,” she said. “For a time.”

“Leave where?” It felt like the earth crumbling beneath his feet, like being bound in magic again. There was a determined set to Hel’s mouth, something stubborn and unmovable.

“The Well of Urd,” she said. She put her feet on the floor and stood up, unsteady, delicately removing her hand from his grip. Faint red lines from the cuts ran along her arms, from wrists to elbows, and seemed almost healed. “I made a deal. Something for myself, do you understand?” She pressed her lips together. “I never want to be a victim again.”

“I understand,” he said, desperate. “I shall teach you. I should have started long ago.”

“No.” She threaded her fingers through his hair, wincing at how filthy it was. “I need to leave. I want to leave, be something more that whatever you pieced together from magic and earth. ‘Tis no fault of yours, Father.” She smiled slightly and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“So this is the same all over again,” he said and could not recognize his own voice.

“You knew I would leave someday.”

“Not like that.”

She put her arms around him instead of answering, hid her face in his shoulder. She would get dirty, he wanted to say, with all the blood and dust from his clothes, but said nothing, embraced her back and tried not to shake.

“I am sorry,” she said very quietly.

“I cannot stop you, can I?”

“You could try.” She stepped away, looked at him from behind a curtain of her hair. “Would you?”

“Do you want me to?”

He could not read her expression for a moment – regret, longing, then a decision that was hard and final like a shutting lid. She started picking up discarded pieces of clothing that were scattered on the floor, folding them and putting away. It occurred to Loki that for the first time he saw her room in a state different than its usual immaculate order.

“No, of course not,” he quietly answered himself, glancing down at his hands. They were still dirty, reddish streaks on the knuckles and grim under fingernails. “That would only make it harder, and you are so certain.”

“I am.” She seemed calm, but there was a rasp in her voice, something unfamiliar and strained. “We shall see each other again, Father, before the world ends.” He looked up and she was smiling, but her lips were trembling, and she was clutching a dress with shaking fingers so hard that the fabric started tearing.

You should not lie to a liar like me, Loki wanted to say.

“Please, just let me go,” Hel whispered, turning away, the dress falling from her fingers. “It’s hard enough without you asking.”

“Could you wait awhile, at least? A month, a year, you are still young, why should you hurry?” He stood up, the world tilted, but he managed to keep his footing. “You are still weak, for the Tree’s sake, you sold a pound of blood to save your worthless father, you should be lying down!” His voice rose in almost hysterical tones and he had to take several deep breaths to stop seeing red at the edges of his vision.

“Do you think they would wait for me?” Hel asked, voice clipped. His outburst seemed to have helped her regain confidence. Her eye was narrowed, her expression slightly disapproving, and Loki did not know where had she learned to lie so well. “The Norns? I would not get such a chance again.”

“No, of course not,” he said, the admission painful in his mouth. “Why them, though? I thought danger held little appeal for you.”

“Safety does me little good, either,” Hel said. “I wish to say goodbye to others. Laufey should be here still, and Helblindi too. Clean yourself up a little, would you, Father?”

It was a dismissal as clear as any. Loki had enough pride left not to say anything to that. It took him long to scrub dirt from his face and body, and when he was finished and looked at himself in the mirror, dressed once again in fresh clothes, he almost did not recognize himself. Hel was still waiting for him in their chambers, idly playing with her hair, pinning it up and then letting down again to cover her face.

“Please don’t go,” Loki said.

Hel was silent for a long time. “Come find me in twelve years,” she said at last.

*

After all was said and done, Hel found herself alone in her chamber. Leaving her father hurt so much she could barely breathe, the center of her chest radiating cold and leaving her numb.  At least she knew she was leaving him in halfway-competent care. Twelve years was such a short time, she kept saying to herself, such a good bargain for her life. She had offered her blood to Skuld, which he had not wanted, but the time of her life and her magic were different, and while she did not understand fully the terms of their bargain, it had to be better than dissolving back into nothingness, or haunting cold halls of Nilfheim forever.

Fenrir’s paws were nearly soundless on the floor, but they knew each other too well to move undetected. He had been wounded, nothing serious, but it was unsettling to see blood still staining his fur, marks that were left by blades and chain around his neck. He had washed, and been healed, but the impression remained, and suddenly Hel’s nostrils were full of smell of blood and steel, and she could not stop shaking.

_Why did you lie?_ Fenrir asked, and her legs nearly gave beneath her. Her first instinct was to protest, to fake indignation, but then Fenrir was in her space, pressing his side to hers, his fur still slightly wet and his body giving off heat like a furnace, and she could not carry the charade anymore.

“I needed to keep something a secret,” she said, her voice stupid and trembling. “Father has been through enough. You have been through enough. Why do you insist on making this so difficult, why can’t you let it go?”

_Let you go, you mean._ There was a low, unhappy grumble deep in Fenrir’s chest. _I do know that none of the Norns offered you anything. How, then?_

“I was meant to die,” Hel said without consciously deciding to utter the words. “I made an offer. Skuld accepted. I shall return, brother.”

_No, you shan’t._ Fenrir said, matter-of-fact, and how easily she had forgotten that he could be as ruthless and pragmatic as any of them. _You only think you shall, but twelve years beneath the roots of Yggdrasil is a long time even for one of us, and as we grow, we walk away without meaning to._ He was silent for a long time. _Jormungandr told me as much._

Hel’s lips trembled again and she turned her back to him to hide the tears that threatened to spill. “Do you think I should have died, then?” Her voice was low and broken, vicious without intent, lashing out to hurt without reason.

_I should have protected you._ There was an ocean of anger in Fenrir’s voice, and self-accusation, and he had never sounded more like Loki. _I should have been there. I would have painted the whole of Asgard in Skadi’s blood._

“There is little need for theatrics, brother. Say what you want to say, let us be done with it.”

_You want me to speak my mind? Fair enough._ He moved in a flash, teeth gleaming, and then she was pressed to a wall, fangs visible in snarling mouth inches from her face. _I shall go with you, and there is no chain strong enough to stop me. Let them make one from the voice of the fish and from the root of the mountain, I shall break it._

“That is loyalty worthy of praise,” a new voice said, and they both froze. “It would be a shame to cast it away, would it not, wolf?”

_I meant what I said, Skuld._

“I know.” The Norn’s voice softened. “But you said so yourself. Twelve years is a long time where we go. You shan’t come back, either.”

Fenrir slowly bared his fangs in a parody of a smile. _That is fine by me._

“Good.” Skuld smiled, just a little crook of mouth. “Shall we go?”

_Aye. But there is one more thing I have to say, sister._

“What is it?”

_Father bid me tell you not to take over any realms when you are out of his sight. Or at least not within the first month._

The darkness between the realms when Skuld opened the path swallowed Hel’s hysterical laughter.


	11. Epilogue

The wind was howling over the dark plains, scuffing up dust and ash until it was difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to see. There were lighter outlines of stars and moons overhead, and a line of reddish hue where the horizon should have been, or perhaps it was just a trick of an eye. Silhouettes of twisted trees and crumbling towers loomed in the distance. A darker outline rose higher and higher before them, scant torches marking the way. Their fire was greenish and otherworldly, smelling faintly of cloves. The road leading to the castle had been paved with stones once, but now half of them was missing, threatening to trip a careless traveller over into foot-high piles of volcanic ash that covered the ground.

“What a ghastly place,” Thor said, shaking his cloak off with distaste. His face was already smeared gray, his armor without its usual sheen. “You always take me somewhere dark and sorrowful.”

“And yet you never refused to come with me,” Loki scoffed, trying to shake at least some of the ash out of his hair. “Never once in twelve years.”

“What can I say?” Thor flashed him a smile, a white gleam of teeth in the dim light. “I do not lack for entertainment. Nor would I let you go off somewhere on your own.”

Loki rolled his eyes, though it was too dark for Thor to see it. “Not that it stops you from complaining.” He started walking again, cautiously picking the way between upturned paving stones and places where the ash was piled too high. There were shapes he could see in a corner of his vision, shadows and spectres, phantoms small and large, with flowing hair or horns towering high, hunched over, standing proud. He could almost make out their voices, moaning and screeching in the wind. He tightened his own cloak around himself and picked up the pace. He had no wish of consorting with those who dwelled under these black skies.

“Is it always like that?” Thor asked, easily falling into step next to him.

“No, I suppose not. There is a mountain of fire far to the east, and it must have erupted again. Magic keeps the worst of heat and ash away, but not all, as you can see.”

Thor made an assenting noise and fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. “I was led to believe it was an underground realm,” he said. “Halls and dungeons where no one could see the sun.”

“Nonsense,” Loki snorted. “Or a figure of speech, perhaps, that got out of hand. There are labyrinths underground, thousands of chambers and corridors, I heard, where most of the people live, but some of them live under the sky, too, build cities and houses.”

“They live underground because of the ash?”

“Yes, Thor, because of the ash,” Loki said patiently. “Have you learned nothing at all?”

Thor at least had the decency to look sheepish. They were nearly at the gates. “‘Tis a far away realm, and we know little of it,” he said. “The old Queen was a recluse. She kept refusing my father’s invitations, and never received any of our envoys.”

“Not entirely surprising,” Loki muttered. “Well, now it will change, I suppose. Stop looking so nervous. We are not here on official business, and you are not the King yet, either.”

Thor chuckled, though there was still tension in the lines of his back and shoulders.

“Luckily enough,” Loki added, unable to help himself. “You still have trouble with things that cannot be solved with a hammer. Not to mention that even on a good day you are a walking, talking diplomatic incident.”

“If I may say so, that was you who nearly caused the war with Muspelheim last year.”

“A miscalculation on my part. Entirely unforeseeable,” Loki said. “Also their envoy could not keep her hands off you.”

Thor sighed. “She was drunk, and you overreacted.”

“I know. We avoided the war. And I did apologize. ”

“You needed quite a lot of pressuring, if I recall correctly. The envoy still thinks you were hilarious.”

“She is a fire giant. No subtlety at all.”

They were at the gates, a vast expanse of black stone towering high over their heads. The gates seemed closed shut, the windows of the castle were dark and there was no sound besides the howling wind, their own breathing, half-unreal voices of the dead. Loki hesitated, then touched the stone, unsure what to do next. It felt alive under his fingers, warm and pulsing. Then the gates started opening, slow and laborious, with a creaking sound like a mountain range breaking apart. Loki jerked his hand back and cursed.

“So much for a private visit,” he mumbled.

Thor touched his hand, pulled him closer for a moment, just enough to feel his body heat in the freezing wind. “It will be fine,” he said quietly. “She will be glad to see you. Stop fretting.”

“I am not fretting,” Loki said through clenched teeth, silently grateful for the comfort nonetheless.

The gate was fully open now, and there was a line of somber, pale people in dark clothes, who went to greet them and quietly ushered them into the castle, no questions asked. The corridors were dim, lit by more of these pale green torches, and smelled faintly of old dust and old decay. The floor and walls made from smooth black stone tiles. The ash was falling down from Thor and Loki’s cloaks with a quiet rustling sound, nearly drowning out the shuffling of feet. It was too still, too dark, not alive enough, and it set his teeth on edge.

“They knew we were coming, I see,” Thor whispered to him, apparently for once unnerved enough that he did not raise his voice.

“I would expect no less.”

Thor smiled, and probably meant it to be encouraging, but it did little to ease a knot of nervousness in Loki’s stomach. “Aye, that one is true.”

One of the servants accompanying them opened a large wooden door, and then slipped into shadows. Loki looked around and realized that between one moment and another they were left alone. He was afraid, suddenly, nauseatingly, unable to move his feet. Thor touched his shoulders again, smiled slightly, though in the green light his face looked strained and pale.

“Right,” Loki said. “I have waited enough.” He forced his feet to move, though his heart was hammering in his chest, his mouth dry. There was a trickle of sweat down his back under his tunic and cloak. He was turning into a stuttering idiot. It must have been something in the air.

“All twelve years of it. Go, I shall be right behind you.”

There she was, inside a chamber that looked surprisingly cosy. Draperies and carpets covered the walls and the floor, furniture looked comfortable and well-used, the light was softer, warmer, and there was a fire crackling in the fireplace. There were books strewn around, dozens of them, thick tomes bound in leather until everything smelled of old parchment. The Queen of Nilfheim was curled into a large armchair, a stack of papers in her lap. She wore a simple dress, long and flowing, but the velvet fabric was rich, in the deep color of fine wine. Her hair was pinned back with pins and jewels, a tiara encrusted with rubies glittered red in the firelight.

Loki finally found his voice and smiled, wide and crooked, felt scars stretching around his mouth. “I thought I told you not to take over any realms.”

“It did take me longer than a month.” Hel pursed her lips, red like blood. Then she was on her feet, in his arms, embracing him with a string of muttered curses, and he thought he was crying, too.

It seemed like an eternity and yet not enough when she let go and graced Thor with a quick, fierce hug. She ordered them around, sat them in armchairs, poured the wine herself, kept touching Loki, on the arm, on the shoulder.

“I must have raised you wrong, then.” Loki still spoke through a lump in his throat, and his vision was hazy, tilted. Cold touch of glass in his fingers felt unreal, like it came from a great distance. Thor was a steady, calming presence next to him.

“Oh, please, Father,” Hel scoffed and smacked him lightly over the head, then smoothed out his hair where it had slipped from the braid. “I had other pursuits. Seidr, mainly. Then I realized I liked directing people better. From then on it was simple enough. Do you like my realm, Father?”

“Not what I would call beautiful, but then since when beautiful held any appeal for you?”

“I am working on the volcano issue,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “You should see the plains sometime when there is no dust, or the mountains.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he said. “Why here, though? I thought you wanted to stay at the Well.”

“Skuld taught me for a time,” Hel said, opened her palms and suddenly there was a tree growing between them, white bark and sap trickling down the trunk. It was gone in the next moment. “Until I realized that I wanted something different when my debt was paid. And here, well,” she shrugged, “I had little trouble in dealing with the Queen, and this realm suits me. Nilfheim is far enough to be peaceful. The people have come to care for me.”

“Are you happy, then?”

“Yes, Father,” she smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “I am not a monster anymore.”

It took him a moment to find the words again. “Then I am happy for you as well,” he said softly. “Is your brother still with you?”

“Yes. He has grown too large to fit into these chambers easily. He enjoys the plains outside, though, and said he wanted to see you before you leave.”

“I would like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment until Hel smiled again, all teeth and mischief. “You know, Father, we may be seeing each other more often than you think.”

“What do you mean? I would want that, of course, but as you said, this realm is far away from Asgard--”

“Do you realize how good it feels to know something that you do not?”

“I definitely raised you wrong,” Loki groaned, and Thor snickered.

Hel got up to her feet, stood in front of the fireplace for a few moments before speaking again. “I should not be telling you this, perhaps, but know this – there soon be a time for the All-father to sleep again, and you should be prepared. Both of you.” She turned around, still smiling despite the serious tone of her words. “And I plan on keeping in touch. As a fellow ruler, you know.”

“This is unexpected,” Loki said when it became clear that Thor had no idea what to say about this. “But – so soon?”

“Well, it had to happen one day.” She shrugged, and it occurred to Loki for the first time that now she was almost as tall as he was.

“People still remember that the rebellion twelve years ago was against Thor, too,” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it would be for the best if he proved himself to be a good ruler. I shall take care of that.”

Thor still looked stricken, but apparently found his voice again. “Should I take care of you, then, and keep you from harassing envoys? Have you breached any more borders lately?”

“Just once or twice, and you kept me company.”

“Needed to keep an eye on you, you mean.”

Sometimes Loki found it difficult to breathe through the fondness in his chest, through something that even after all these years seemed impossible. He had paid dearly, and still missed his home, and hated Asgardian summers, sometimes hated Odin or the Aesir, but sometimes he was so stupidly happy that it all seemed a dream.

“It shall be fine,” he said quietly. “We can work through this.”

“Of course we can.” Thor touched his hand reassuringly. There was a distant rumble outside, and the castle seemed to shake in its foundations. “Is it the volcano? Shall we see?”

He suddenly looked so young and earnest. He still could, for a while, Loki supposed, and could not help feeling equally excited when he fell into step behind him, his daughter trailing after them and laughing, when they ran to see a mountain spitting ash and fire into the sky. Perhaps he could help Hel weave a spell to keep it from happening, and perhaps a year from now they could be at war.

But now he was going to see his son, and after that they could go and see the mountains in Nilfheim before someone in Asgard noticed they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. For a fic that I started writing last July to cheer myself up after my exams it sure turned out way longer than I expected - in fact, it's a single longest finished piece of writing I've ever done. Thank you all so much for the kudos and for all the lovely comments, and I hope you enjoyed the story despite its terminal problems with pacing and out-of-character-ness. I was honestly surprised by all of positive feedback, thank you, you all rock <3


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